Along the lone causeway, three hundred years ago traversed by Cortez--
and now, instead of open water, with a _zanca_ on each side of it--we
journeyed in solemn silence.
I had waited for that hour of the night when wayfarers, who might turn
informers, were not likely to be encountered on the road.
We passed the isolated hill of El Penon without meeting any one; and
commenced skirting the saline shores of Tezcoco.
The ride, though long, was far from appearing tedious. How could it be
in the company of a stage-coach driver--especially one from the
"States?"
Who does not know him? Who that has journeyed upon the "corduroy roads"
of Kentucky, Mississippi, or Tennessee--who thus dreadfully jolted--does
not remember the compensation he has had, in the cheerful conversation
of the man who conducted him over these accursed causeways?
In Mexico he is met, just as in the States; mounted on the box of a
"Troy" coach; dressed in jacket, or tailed-coat with short skirts; the
universal white hat upon his head; and perchance a cigar sticking
slantwise between his teeth. Thus he may be seen--and never seen
without being liked--almost beloved--by those whose luck it is to have a
seat upon the box beside him.
Light, tight, intelligent, and cheery--civil to the humblest outsider--
daring to a degree of recklessness--he is as different from the unwieldy
six-caped carcase of English stage-coach celebrity, as a butterfly to a
buffalo. Who ever sate on the box beside him, without longing to sit
there again?
Where is the guide-book that can tell you half so much of the road--
every turn and winding--every incident that has occurred upon it for the
last ten years--murders, suicides, runaway matches, struggles with black
bears, and chases of red deer--in short, everything worthy of being
recorded?
And all this with a thorough disinterestedness--his sole design being to
entertain you. No thought of the "tip" which your Old World Jehu
expects to receive at parting company. Offer it to _him_, and in all
likelihood he will fling it back at your feet! He has not yet been
corrupted by the customs of king-loving communities.
Meet him in Mexico: for he is there. He had to go with the coaches
imported from "Troy"--not the Troy of the Dardanelles, that "Ammon's
sons ran proudly round"--but its modern, and more peaceful, namesake in
the state of New York.
Although under a different name, the _diligencia_ of Mexico is the
stage-coach of the States--its driver the same light-hearted happy
fellow, with a good word for everybody, and a kindly smile for all the
_muchachas_, plain or pretty, he may pass upon his route.
Interesting as this man is--and has been for a century in the United
States--he is still more interesting upon the stage roads of Mexico.
Scarcely a day of his life passes without his being in peril. I do not
allude to the reckless pace at which he urges his half-tamed mustangs--
three abreast--down the declivities of the Mexican mountains. These are
occurrences of every hour. I speak of the perils that threaten him from
the behaviour of the _bandoleros_--by whom he is repeatedly surrounded.
Sam Brown's dealings with these gentry were of almost daily occurrence.
At all events, there was scarcely a week without his being witness to a
scene--not unfrequently having a tragical termination. More than once
had he been present at the spilling of blood!
The _diligencia_ is usually accompanied by an _escolta_--a troop of
_dragones_, or _lanzeros_, ill-armed and equipped; whose tattered
uniforms, and feet set shoeless in their stirrups, render them more
grotesque than terrible.
At times the escort is itself attacked; and a sharp skirmish comes off
between troops and bandits--the former not unfrequently fleeing the
field, and leaving their _proteges_, the passengers, to be plundered at
the discretion of the triumphant _salteadores_.
At other times the _escolta_ declines "coming to the scratch"--having
taken the precaution just at the critical moment to be riding far in the
rear; then galloping up with swaggering demonstration, after the robbers
have completed their pillage, and gone away from the ground!
Either a strong escort, or none at all, was Sam Brown's sentiment; but
his preference was, decidedly, for none at all!
In the latter case the _diligencia_ is often permitted to continue its
route uninterrupted: the bandits believing, that it carries no
passengers worth protecting, and therefore not worth pillaging!
It is no rare thing for the "escolta" itself to be suspected; or at
least the officer commanding it. More than once has the connivance been
established, by evidence, in a court of law!
Still rarer does punishment follow in any proportion to the diabolical
crime--the criminal usually getting clear by turning _salteador_
himself!
On the other hand, there are times when an honest officer--one of action
and courage--makes his appearance upon the scene; and by the energetic
performance of his duty becomes a terror to the bandits--rendering the
roads comparatively safe.
Unluckily this improved state of things continues but for a short
period. Some new _grito_--followed by the usual spasmodic revolution--
brings about a change, both in rulers and robbers; who sometimes also
_exchange_ situations! The energetic officer is snatched away from the
scene--either by death, or promotion to a better post; and the passage
of the roads becomes perilous as ever.
Such were a few of the revelations I had from the lips of Don Samuel
Bruno, as we journeyed along the lone causeway leading by the lake
Tezcoco.
There were two things still unexplained, and which no little puzzled me:
how my guide had contrived to come safe out of so many hair-breadth
perils? And how he managed to keep his peace with the _salteadores_?
The explanation was asked for, and freely given.
The secret lay in a nutshell.
_No matter what happened, Sam always remained neutral_!
"Ye see, cap'n," said he--by way of explanation rather than apology, "as
I'm only the driver, they hain't no ill-will agin me. They know I'm but
doin' my duty. Besides, if thar was no driver, there ked be no
_diligencia_; an' if _it_ war off the road, all the wuss for them, I
reck'n. They look upon me as bein' nootral; otherwise I needn't go that
way agin. I keep on my box, an' leave 'em do as they've a mind--knowin'
that I ked be of no sarvice to the poor passengers that's bein'
plundered. I kin do _them_ more good, arter it's all over--by drivin'
them on to thar destinashun."
For a time my companion was silent, and I too. I became absorbed in
thoughts, cheerless, if not absolutely sad.
The sight of Tezcoco, along whose shores we were now proceeding, was not
calculated to cheer me. The lake looked still, and dark as Acheron
itself--its sombre silence relieved only at intervals by sounds yet more
lugubrious--the scream of the great curlew, or the screech-like call of
the American ibis!
Giving way to a string of unpleasant fancies, I rode on without speaking
to any of my comrades.
I was roused from my reverie by the voice of Sam Brown; who appeared
desirous of once more entering into conversation.
"Cap'n!" said he, spurring alongside of me, and dragging the pack-mule
after him. "'Scuse me for intrudin' upon you; but I've got somethin'
more to say about this business we're on. What air ye goin' to do?"
"No excuse, Mr Brown. On the contrary, I was about to put the same
interrogatory to you. I confess that I feel a little perplexed. Now
that we've started on this expedition, I begin to see the difficulty--if
not the absolute idleness of it. It seems absurd to suppose that the
robbers would send one of their number to meet any messenger, who may be
deputed to them,--without taking precautions against a surprise?"
"They never do, cap'n. They ain't sech consarned fools."
"Well, I thought as much; or do now--now that I've had time to reflect
upon it. It isn't the scheme I had intended to have carried out. After
all, there's no alternative, but to go through with it. What's your
advice?"
"Well, cap'n; my advice might be no better than anybody else's; only
that I've took notice to a thing or two."
"Where? When?"
"I kin answer both yer questions at the same time: whar and when the
coach was stopped."
"You noticed something strange?"
"More'n one thing; several o' 'em."
"What were they?"
"First, then, the skunks were _craped_."
"I've heard the same from Don Eusebio. But what signification is there
in that?"
"Not much, I admit; only that it ain't common for reg'lar robbers to
wear crape. They don't care who sees _their_ faces: bein' as they make
thar home among the mountings; and never put themselves in the power of
the sojers, or _alguazils_. These bein' craped, shows they're a lot
from the town."
"What town?"
"Puebla, in coorse. It's the biggest nest in all the Mexikin
domeenyuns. They wore that kiver to keep from bein' recognised--shed
they be met afterwards in the streets. It don't follow that they were
any the less brigands on that account. Them of the town air jest as bad
as them that keep out in the country. They all belong to the same
school; only the outsiders don't care whether they're known by them as
they plunder; while the town chaps sometimes do--for sartin reasons."
"There were some other circumstances that appeared odd to you?" I asked
of my intelligent guide.
"One other as looked darnationed odd. It puzzled me at the time, an' do
still. I had my eyes on them two saynoritas as travelled with the old
Don, thar father. There's one o' them especially I'd like to know who
ked keep his eyes off o'. Well, what surprised me was, that instead o'
seemin' scared-like, and squealin' out--as I've heerd other Mexikin
sheemales do when tuk by the robbers--they both flirted off among the
trees, with two or three o' the brigands attending on 'em, jest as if
they were startin' out a huckleberryin'!
"All the while the old Don war down upon his belly--flat as a pancake--
from which seetuation he warn't allowed to stir, till the gurls had gone
clean out o' sight.
"Then one o' the band bargained wi' him about the ransom-money--tellin'
him it was to be trusted to me, an' whar it was to be brought. They
then bundled him back into the coach, an ordered me to drive on--the
which, I reckon, I war riddy enough to do."
"But there was a priest along with them. What became of him?"
"Oh! the monk. That 'ere is also kewrious. The robbers usooaly let
_them_ go--after makin' 'em give each o' the band a blessin'! _Him_
they kep along wi' 'em; for what purpose the Lord only knows. Maybe to
make sport o' him, by way o' divarshin. Seein' that I war no longer
wanted, I gave the whup to the hosses; and fetched the old gentleman
away, all by himself."
"Do you think his daughters in danger of being ill-treated?"
"Well, that depends on whose hands they've fallen into. Some are worse
than others. Some times they're only a set o' idle fellows from the
towns, who put on robber for the time--just to raise the wind in that
way. When they've got up a stake, they go back to their gamblin' at
_monte_; the which pays them better, and ain't so much risk o' their
gettin' shot, or shet up. There are officers of the army who've been
known to take a turn at the business--after they've spent their pay, or
don't get it to spend--which last happens beout half the time.
"Then there's the reg'lar _bandoleros_--or _salteadores_, as they
sometimes call 'em--who live by it for constant. Of them there's
several seprit bands along this road. One in partickler, called
_Carrasco's_, who used to be a officer in Santa Anna's army. There's
_Dominguez_, too, who was a colonel; but he's now along wi' you at the
head o' the Spies. I don't think it was Carrasco's fellows that stopped
us this time."
"Why not?"
"_They_ wouldn't a' cared to wear crape. I hope it wan't them."
I had a painful suspicion why this hope was expressed; and anxiously
enquired the reason.
"Because," answered the guide, "if it hez been Carrasco, I shed say a
pity o' them two young critters. Kewrious thar showin' so little
skeeart!
"Maybe they didn't more'n half know thar danger. As the robbers don't
allers ill-treat the weemen--'ceptin' to strip 'em of thar gimcracks and
the like--the Mexican sheemales ain't so much 'fraid o' 'em as ye might
suppose they'd be."
"Arter all," continued he, "it may be that I war mistaken. They were so
quick bore off into the bushes, I hadn't much time to take notice o'
'em--the more so as I had enough to do in keepin' my hosses from goin'
over the edge o' a precipice--by the side o' which we were brought to
the stand."
"In any case," pursued Sam Brown, riding a little closer to me, and
speaking so as not to be overheard by my followers, "It air time ye made
up your mind what to do, cap'n. We're now come to the place, whar we
must take leave o' the main road. The rendezvoos gin me by the robbers
lies up one o' these side gullies, whar there's nothin' but a bridle
path. Another half-hour's ridin' 'll fetch us to the place o'
appointment."
"Have you thought of any other plan than that already spoken of?"
I put the question, fancying from his manner that something else had
suggested itself to him.
"I hev, cap'n. There's jest a chance that I know whar them craped
gentlemen air at this very minute--jest a chance of thar bein' thar."
The last words were spoken slowly, and in a sort of meditative
soliloquy.
"Where? Of what place are you speaking?"
"A queery place; and ye wouldn't know whar it is if I war to tell ye.
To understan the lie o' that shanty, ye'd hev to see it for yourself;
which not many ever do, ceptin' them as have got bizness thar--an' they
ain't sech as air honest."
"A shanty--there's a house? Some solitary dwelling, I suppose?"
"Ye may well call it that, cap'n. It sartinly are the most solitariest
dwellin' I ever seed; an' what any man ked iver a built it for, beats my
recknin'--as I b'lieve it do that o' most others as hev specklated upon
it. Lies up thar."
I looked in the direction indicated by his gesture. Several dark lists
seamed the side of the mountain--at the foot of which we had come to a
halt. One of them looked deeper and more cavernous than the rest;
though all seemed to trend towards the summit of the slope.
The mountain itself went up with a gradual acclivity; its sides
forest-covered--except here and there, where the naked porphyry peeped
out through the dark green drapery of the pines.
Though the sky was moonless, there were stars. By their light I could
distinguish something white above and beyond the pine-covered track. It
looked like a patch of fleecy cloud.
"That ere's the buzzum o' the White Woman," remarked the guide, seeing
what my eyes were fixed upon. "She lies jest beyont the big black
mountain. There's only a sort o' a ridge atween 'em."
"_Ixticihuatl_!" I said, now recognising the snowy summit. "You don't
mean that the robbers are gone up there?"
"Not so fur as that. If they war, we _shed_ have a climb for it. The
place I'm speakin' o' is in that dark gulley ye see straight afore you.
It's this side the lower end o' it whar I'm to meet thar messenger, and
deliver up the dollars. That's jest why I think we might find them at
the shanty I've told ye about."
"There can be no harm in our going there?"
"I reckon not," answered the guide, reflectingly. "If we don't find 'em
thar, we kin get back to the bottom afore daylight, an' then carry out
the other plan. Thar's one thing we've got to do, afore we reach that
ere shanty. We've got to hev a climb for it; and the last quarter o' a
mile 'll hev to be made upon Shanks's mare."
"No matter for that," I said, impatient to proceed. "You lead the way.
I'll answer for myself and men being able to follow you."
"I ain't afeerd beout that," rejoined Don Samuel Bruno. "But mind,
cap'n!" added he, in the exercise of his Yankee caution, "I haint said
we'll find them thar--only thet it air likely. All events it air worth
while tryin'--considerin' sech a sweet gurl as she air in the hands o'
sech ruffins. She oughter be tuk from 'em anyhow--an' at any price!"
I needed not to ask him which was meant by the "sweet gurl." Too well
did I divine that it was Dolores.
"Lead on!" I exclaimed, giving the spur to my horse, and the "Forward"
to my followers.