“On my consenting, he turned to the offended dame, and in spite of her
protests and appeals to drop matters, we left the ballroom, glaring
daggers at each other. Once outside, he slapped me on the back, and
said, ‘Say, we’ll just have time to run up to my office, where I have
some choice old copper-distilled, sent me by a very dear friend in
Kentucky.’
“The goods were all he claimed for them, and on our return he asked me
as a personal favor to apologize to the lady, admitting that he was
none too solid with her himself. My doing so, he argued, would fortify
him with her and wipe out rivals. The doctor was a rattling good
fellow, and I’d even taken off my new shirt for him, if he’d said the
word. When I made the apology, I did it on the grounds that I could not
afford to have any difference, especially with a gentleman who would
willingly risk his life for a lady who claimed his protection.
“No, if you never heard of voting the bonds you certainly haven’t kept
very close tab on affairs in this Strip. Two or three men whom I know
refused to go in and vote. They ain’t working in this country now. It
took some of the boys ten days to go and come, but there wasn’t a word
said. Wages went on just the same. You ain’t asleep, are you, Don
Guillermo?”
“Oh, no,” said Edwards, with a yawn, “I feel just like the nigger did
when he eat his fill of possum, corn bread, and new molasses: pushed
the platter away and said, ‘Go way, ’lasses, you done los’ yo’
sweetness.’”
Bradshaw made several attempts to go, but each time some thought would
enter his mind and he would return with questions about former
acquaintances. Finally he inquired, “What ever became of that little
fellow who was sick about your camp?”
Edwards meditated until Mouse said, “He’s thinking about little St.
John, the fiddler.”
“Oh, yes, Patsy St. John, the little glass-blower,” said Edwards, as he
sat up on a roll of bedding. “He’s dead long ago. Died at our camp. I
did something for him that I’ve often wondered who would do the same
for me—I closed his eyes when he died. You know he came to us with the
mark on his brow. There was no escape; he had consumption. He wanted to
live, and struggled hard to avoid going. Until three days before his
death he was hopeful; always would tell us how much better he was
getting, and every one could see that he was gradually going. We always
gave him gentle horses to ride, and he would go with us on trips that
we were afraid would be his last. There wasn’t a man on the range who
ever said ‘No’ to him. He was one of those little men you can’t help
but like; small physically, but with a heart as big as an ox’s. He
lived about three years on the range, was welcome wherever he went, and
never made an enemy or lost a friend. He couldn’t; it wasn’t in him. I
don’t remember now how he came to the range, but think he was advised
by doctors to lead an outdoor life for a change.
“He was born in the South, and was a glass-blower by occupation. He
would have died sooner, but for his pluck and confidence that he would
get well. He changed his mind one morning, lost hope that he would ever
get well, and died in three days. It was in the spring. We were going
out one morning to put in a flood-gate on the river, which had washed
away in a freshet. He was ready to go along. He hadn’t been on a horse
in two weeks. No one ever pretended to notice that he was sick. He was
sensitive if you offered any sympathy, so no one offered to assist,
except to saddle his horse. The old horse stood like a kitten. Not a
man pretended to notice, but we all saw him put his foot in the stirrup
three different times and attempt to lift himself into the saddle. He
simply lacked the strength. He asked one of the boys to unsaddle the
horse, saying he wouldn’t go with us. Some of the boys suggested that
it was a long ride, and it was best he didn’t go, that we would hardly
get back until after dark. But we had no idea that he was so near his
end. After we left, he went back to the shack and told the cook he had
changed his mind,—that he was going to die. That night, when we came
back, he was lying on his cot. We all tried to jolly him, but each got
the same answer from him, ‘I’m going to die.’ The outfit to a man was
broke up about it, but all kept up a good front. We tried to make him
believe it was only one of his bad days, but he knew otherwise. He
asked Joe Box and Ham Rhodes, the two biggest men in the outfit,
six-footers and an inch each, to sit one on each side of his cot until
he went to sleep. He knew better than any of us how near he was to
crossing. But it seemed he felt safe between these two giants. We kept
up a running conversation in jest with one another, though it was empty
mockery. But he never pretended to notice. It was plain to us all that
the fear was on him. We kept near the shack the next day, some of the
boys always with him. The third evening he seemed to rally, talked with
us all, and asked if some of the boys would not play the fiddle. He was
a good player himself. Several of the boys played old favorites of his,
interspersed with stories and songs, until the evening was passing
pleasantly. We were recovering from our despondency with this
noticeable recovery on his part, when he whispered to his two big
nurses to prop him up. They did so with pillows and parkers, and he
actually smiled on us all. He whispered to Joe, who in turn asked the
lad sitting on the foot of the cot to play Farewell, my Sunny Southern
Home.’ Strange we had forgotten that old air,—for it was a general
favorite with us,—and stranger now that he should ask for it. As that
old familiar air was wafted out from the instrument, he raised his
eyes, and seemed to wander in his mind as if trying to follow the
refrain. Then something came over him, for he sat up rigid, pointing
out his hand at the empty space, and muttered, ‘There
stands—mother—now—under—the—oleanders. Who is—that with—her? Yes, I
had—a sister. Open—the—windows. It—is—getting—dark—dark—dark.’
“Large hands laid him down tenderly, but a fit of coughing came on. He
struggled in a hemorrhage for a moment, and then crossed over to the
waiting figures among the oleanders. Of all the broke-up outfits, we
were the most. Dead tough men bawled like babies. I had a good one
myself. When we came around to our senses, we all admitted it was for
the best. Since he could not get well, he was better off. We took him
next day about ten miles and buried him with those freighters who were
killed when the Pawnees raided this country. Some man will plant corn
over their graves some day.”
As Edwards finished his story, his voice trembled and there were tears
in his eyes. A strange silence had come over those gathered about the
camp-fire. Mouse, to conceal his emotion, pretended to be asleep, while
Bradshaw made an effort to clear his throat of something that would
neither go up nor down, and failing in this, turned and walked away
without a word. Silently we unrolled the beds, and with saddles for
pillows and the dome of heaven for a roof, we fell asleep.
X
THE RANSOM OF DON RAMON MORA
On the southern slope of the main tableland which divides the waters of
the Nueces and Rio Grande rivers in Texas, lies the old Spanish land
grant of “Agua Dulce,” and the rancho by that name. Twice within the
space of fifteen years was an appeal to the sword taken over the
ownership of the territory between these rivers. Sparsely settled by
the descendants of the original grantees, with an occasional American
ranchman, it is to-day much the same as when the treaty of peace gave
it to the stronger republic.
This frontier on the south has undergone few changes in the last half
century, and no improvements have been made. Here the smuggler against
both governments finds an inviting field. The bandit and the robber
feel equally at home under either flag. Revolutionists hatch their
plots against the powers that be; sedition takes on life and finds
adherents eager to bear arms and apply the torch.
Within a dozen years of the close of the century just past, this
territory was infested by a band of robbers, whose boldness has had few
equals in the history of American brigandage. The Bedouins of the
Orient justify their freebooting by accounting it a religious duty,
looking upon every one against their faith as an Infidel, and therefore
common property. These bandits could offer no such excuse, for they
plundered people of their own faith and blood. They were Mexicans, a
hybrid mixture of Spanish atrocity and Indian cruelty. They numbered
from ten to twenty, and for several months terrorized the Mexican
inhabitants on both sides of the river. On the American side they were
particular never to molest any one except those of their own
nationality. These they robbed with impunity, nor did their victims
dare to complain to the authorities, so thoroughly were they terrified
and coerced.
The last and most daring act of these marauders was the kidnapping of
Don Ramon Mora, owner of the princely grant of Agua Dulce. Thousands of
cattle and horses ranged over the vast acres of his ranch, and he was
reputed to be a wealthy man. No one ever enjoyed the hospitality of
Agua Dulce but went his way with an increased regard for its owner and
his estimable Castilian family. The rancho lay back from the river
probably sixty miles, and was on the border of the chaparral, which was
the rendezvous of the robbers. Don Ramon had a pleasant home in one of
the river towns. One June he and his family had gone to the ranch,
intending to spend a few weeks there. He had notified cattle-buyers of
this vacation, and had invited them to visit him there either on
business or pleasure.
One evening an unknown vaquero rode up to the rancho and asked for Don
Ramon. That gentleman presenting himself, the stranger made known his
errand: a certain firm of well-known drovers, friends of the ranchero,
were encamped for the night at a ranchita some ten miles distant. They
regretted that they could not visit him, but they would be pleased to
see him. They gave as an excuse for not calling that they were driving
quite a herd of cattle, and the corrals at this little ranch were
unsafe for the number they had, so that they were compelled to hold
outside or night-herd. This very plausible story was accepted without
question by Don Ramon, who well understood the handling of herds.
Inviting the messenger to some refreshment, he ordered his horse
saddled and made preparation to return with this pseudo vaquero.
Telling his family that he would be gone for the night, he rode away
with the stranger.
There were several thickety groves, extending from the main chaparral
out for considerable distance on the prairie, but not of as rank a
growth as on the alluvial river bottoms. These thickets were composed
of thorny underbrush, frequently as large as fruit trees and of a
density which made them impenetrable, except by those thoroughly
familiar with the few established trails. The road from Agua Dulce to
the ranchita was plain and well known, yet passing through several arms
of the main body of the chaparral. Don Ramon and his guide reached one
of these thickets after nightfall. Suddenly they were surrounded by a
dozen horsemen, who, with oaths and jests, told him that he was their
prisoner. Relieving Don Ramon of his firearms and other valuables, one
of the bandits took the bridle off his horse, and putting a rope around
the animal’s neck, the band turned towards the river with their
captive. Near morning they went into one of their many retreats in the
chaparral, fettering their prisoner. What the feelings of Don Ramon
Mora were that night is not for pen to picture, for they must have been
indescribable.
The following day the leader of these bandits held several
conversations with him, asking in regard to his family, his children in
particular, their names, number, and ages. When evening came they set
out once more southward, crossing the Rio Grande during the night at an
unused ford. The next morning found them well inland on the Mexican
side, and encamped in one of their many chaparral rendezvous. Here they
spent several days, sometimes, however, only a few of the band being
present. The density of the thickets on the first and second bottoms of
this river, extending back inland often fifty miles, made this camp and
refuge almost inaccessible. The country furnished their main
subsistence; fresh meat was always at hand, while their comrades,
scouting the river towns, supplied such comforts as were lacking.
Don Ramon’s appeals to his captors to know his offense and what his
punishment was to be were laughed at until he had been their prisoner a
week. One night several of the party returned, awoke him out of a
friendly sleep, and he was notified that their chief would join them by
daybreak, and then he would know what his offense had been. When this
personage made his appearance, he ordered Don Ramon released from his
fetters. Every one in camp showed obeisance to him. After holding a
general conversation with his followers, he approached Don Ramon, the
band forming a circle about the prisoner and their chief.
“Don Ramon Mora,” he began, with mock courtesy, “doubtless you consider
yourself an innocent and abused person. In that you are wrong. Your
offense is a political one. Your family for three generations have
opposed the freedom of Mexico. When our people were conquered and
control was given to the French, it was through the treachery of such
men as you. Treason is unpardonable, Señor Mora. It is useless to
enumerate your crimes against human liberty. Living as you do under a
friendly government, you have incited the ignorant to revolution and
revolt against the native rulers. Secret agents of our common country
have shadowed you for years. It is useless to deny your guilt. Your
execution, therefore, will be secret, in order that your co-workers in
infamy shall not take alarm, but may meet a similar fate.”
Turning to one of the party who had acted as leader at the time of his
capture, he gave these instructions: “Be in no hurry to execute these
orders. Death is far too light a sentence to fit his crime. He is
beyond a full measure of justice.” There was a chorus of “bravos” when
the bandit chief finished this trumped-up charge. As he turned from the
prisoner, Don Ramon pleadingly begged, “Only take me before an
established court that I may prove my innocence.”
“No! sentence has been passed upon you. If you hope for mercy, it must
come from there,” and the chief pointed heavenward. One of the band led
out the arch-chief’s horse, and with a parting instruction to “conceal
his grave carefully,” he rode away with but a single attendant.
As they led Don Ramon back to his blanket and replaced the fetters, his
cup of sorrow was full to overflowing. Oddly enough the leader, since
sentence of death had been pronounced upon his victim, was the only one
of the band who showed any kindness. The others were brutal in their
jeers and taunts. Some remarks burned into his sensitive nature as
vitriol burns into metal. The bandit leader alone offered little
kindnesses.
Two days later, the acting chief ordered the irons taken from the
captive’s feet, and the two men, with but a single attendant, who kept
a respectful distance, started out for a stroll. The bandit chief
expressed his regret at the sad duty which had been allotted him, and
assured Don Ramon that he would gladly make his time as long as was
permissible.
“I thank you for your kindness,” said Don Ramon, “but is there no
chance to be given me to prove the falsity of these charges? Am I
condemned to die without a hearing?”
“There is no hope from that source.”
“Is there any hope from any source?”
“Scarcely,” replied the leader, “and still, if we could satisfy those
in authority over us that you had been executed as ordered, and if my
men could be bribed to certify the fact if necessary, and if you pledge
us to quit the country forever, who would know to the contrary? True,
our lives would be in jeopardy, and it would mean death to you if you
betrayed us.”
“Is this possible?” asked Don Ramon excitedly.
“The color of gold makes a good many things possible.”
“I would gladly give all I possess in the world for one hour’s peace in
the presence of my family, even if in the next my soul was summoned to
the bar of God. True, in lands and cattle I am wealthy, but the money
at my command is limited, though I wish it were otherwise.”
“It is a fortunate thing that you are a man of means. Say nothing to
your guards, and I will have a talk this very night with two men whom I
can trust, and we will see what can be done for you. Come, señor, don’t
despair, for I feel there is some hope,” concluded the bandit.
The family of Don Ramon were uneasy but not alarmed by his failure to
return to them the day following his departure. After two days had
passed, during which no word had come from him, his wife sent an old
servant to see if he was still at the ranchita. There the man learned
that his master had not been seen, nor had there been any drovers there
recently. Under the promise of secrecy, the servant was further
informed that, on the very day that Don Ramon had left his home, a band
of robbers had driven into a corral at a ranch in the _monte_ a remudo
of ranch horses, and, asking no one’s consent, had proceeded to change
their mounts, leaving their own tired horses. This they did at noonday,
without so much as a hand raised in protest, so terrified were the
people of the ranch.
On the servant’s return to Agua Dulce, the alarm and grief of the
family were pitiful, as was their helplessness. When darkness set in
Señora Mora sent a letter by a peon to an old family friend at his home
on the river. The next night three men, for mutual protection, brought
back a reply. From it these plausible deductions were made:—
That Don Ramon had been kidnapped for a ransom; that these bandits no
doubt were desperate men who would let nothing interfere with their
plans; that to notify the authorities and ask for help might end in his
murder; and that if kidnapped for a ransom, overtures for his
redemption would be made in due time. As he was entirely at the mercy
of his captors, they must look for hope only from that source. If
reward was their motive, he was worth more living than dead. This was
the only consolation deduced. The letter concluded by advising them to
meet any overture in strict confidence. As only money would be
acceptable in such a case, the friend pledged all his means in behalf
of Don Ramon should it be needed.
These were anxious days and weary nights for this innocent family. The
father, no doubt, would welcome death itself in preference to the rack
on which he was kept by his captors. Time is not considered valuable in
warm climates, and two weary days were allowed to pass before any
conversation was renewed with Don Ramon.
Then once more the chief had the fetters removed from his victim’s
ankles, with the customary guard within call. He explained that many of
the men were away, and it would be several days yet before he could
know if the outlook for his release was favorable. From what he had
been able to learn so far, at least fifty thousand dollars would be
necessary to satisfy the band, which numbered twenty, five of whom were
spies. They were poor men, he further explained, many of them had
families, and if they accepted money in a case like this,
self-banishment was the only safe course, as the political society to
which they belonged would place a price on their heads if they were
detected.
“The sum mentioned is a large one,” commented Don Ramon, “but it is
nothing to the mental anguish that I suffer daily. If I had time and
freedom, the money might be raised. But as it is, it is doubtful if I
could command one fifth of it.”
“You have a son,” said the chief, “a young man of twenty. Could he not
as well as yourself raise this amount? A letter could be placed in his
hands stating that a political society had sentenced you to death, and
that your life was only spared from day to day by the sufferance of
your captors. Ask him to raise this sum, tell him it would mean freedom
and restoration to your family. Could he not do this as well as you?”
“If time were given him, possibly. Can I send him such a letter?”
pleaded Don Ramon, brightening with the hope of this new opportunity.
“It would be impossible at present. The consent of all interested must
first be gained. Our responsibility then becomes greater than yours. No
false step must be taken. To-morrow is the soonest that we can get a
hearing with all. There must be no dissenters to the plan or it fails,
and then—well, the execution has been delayed long enough.”
Thus the days wore on.
The absence of the band, except for the few who guarded the prisoner,
was policy on their part. They were receiving the news from the river
villages daily, where the friends of Don Ramon discussed his absence in
whispers. Their system of espionage was as careful as their methods
were cruel and heartless. They even got reports from the ranch that not
a member of the family had ventured away since its master’s capture.
The local authorities were inactive. The bandits would play their cards
for a high ransom.
Early one morning after a troubled night’s rest, Don Ramon was awakened
by the arrival of the robbers, several of whom were boisterously drunk.
It was only with curses and drawn arms that the chief prevented these
men from committing outrages on their helpless captive.
After coffee was served, the chief unfolded his plot to them, with Don
Ramon as a listener to the proceedings. Addressing them, he said that
the prisoner’s offense was not one against them or theirs; that at best
they were but the hirelings of others; that they were poorly paid, and
that it had become sickening to him to do the bloody work for others.
Don Ramon Mora had gold at his command, enough to give each more in a
day than they could hope to receive for years of this inhuman
servitude. He could possibly pay to each two thousand dollars for his
freedom, guaranteeing them his gratitude, and pledging to refrain from
any prosecution. Would they accept this offer or refuse it? As many as
were in favor of granting his life would deposit in his hat a leaf from
the mesquite; those opposed, a leaf from the wild cane which surrounded
their camp.
The vote asked for was watched by the prisoner as only a man could
watch whose life hung in the balance. There were eight cane leaves to
seven of the mesquite. The chief flew into a rage, cursed his followers
for murderers for refusing to let the life blood run in this man, who
had never done one of them an injury. He called them cowards for
attacking the helpless, even accusing them of lack of respect for their
chief’s wishes. The majority hung their heads like whipped curs. When
he had finished his harangue, one of their number held up his hand to
beg the privilege of speaking.
“Yes, defend your dastardly act if you can,” said the chief.
“Capitan,” said the man, making obeisance and tapping his breast,
“there is an oath recorded here, in memory of a father who was hanged
by the French for no other crime save that he was a patriot to the land
of his birth. And you ask me to violate my vow! To the wind with your
sympathy! To the gallows with our enemies!” There was a chorus of
“bravos” and shouts of “Vivi el Mejico,” as the majority congratulated
the speaker.
When the chief led the prisoner back to his blanket, he spoke hopefully
to Don Ramon, explaining that it was the mescal the men had drunk which
made them so unreasonable and defiant. Promising to reason with them
when they were more sober, he left Don Ramon with his solitary guard.
The chief then returned to the band, where he received the
congratulations of his partners in crime on his mock sympathy. It was
agreed that the majority should be won over at the next council, which
they would hold that evening.