THE RANCHO.
The road the two men had to travel together was tolerably long. Don
Estevan would not have been sorry to shorten it by talking to Don
Fernando, particularly as the manner in which he had made acquaintance
with the latter, and the light in which he had shown himself, excited
the curiosity of the former in the highest degree. Unfortunately,
Don Fernando did not seem in the least inclined to keep up the
conversation; and, in spite of all his efforts, the _major-domo_ found
himself obliged to conform to his companion's state of mind, and
imitate his taciturnity.
They had already left the village a long way behind them, and were
cantering along the undulating banks of the Rio Bermejo, when they
heard, at a short distance in front of them, the sound of a horse at
full gallop. We say, they heard; for, shortly after leaving the grotto,
the sun had finally disappeared below the horizon, and there had been a
sudden transition from the glorious light of day to thick darkness.
In Mexico, where there is no police, or, at all events, only a nominal
one, every man is obliged to take care of himself. Two men, meeting on
a road after nightfall, cannot accost each other without the greatest
precaution, nor approach each other until fully assured they have
nothing to fear.
"Keep your distance!" shouted Don Fernando, as soon as he thought the
person approaching was within reach of his voice.
"And why so? You know you have nothing to fear from me," answered
somebody; the sound caused by the horse's hoofs ceasing at the same
time, denoting that the rider had halted.
"I know that voice," said the Mexican.
"And the man, too, Señor Don Fernando, for it is not very long since we
met; I am El Zapote."
"Aha!" laughed Don Fernando; "Is it you, Tonillo? Come on, _muchacho_."
The latter rode up directly.
"What the devil are you doing on this road, at this hour of the night?"
"I am coming from a rendezvous, and returning to the pueblo."
"I fancy that rendezvous has been a slippery affair."
"You insult me, Don Fernando. I am an honourable man."
"I have no doubt of it. Moreover, your affairs are not mine; and I do
not choose to be mixed up with them. Come, adieu, Tonillo."
"A moment if you please. Since I have been lucky enough to meet you,
grant me five minutes: I was going to look for you."
"You! Is it a case like the last? I thought you had had enough of that
speculation, which hardly succeeds with me."
"Here is the matter in two words, Don Fernando. After what happened the
other day, I considered that I owed you my life, and, consequently,
had not full liberty of action where you are concerned. But you know,
señor, I am a _caballero_; and as an honest man can but stick to his
word, I resolved to see the person who had paid me to kill you, and
return him the money. It was hard to disburse so large a sum; but I did
not hesitate. One may well say, a good action always brings its own
recompense."
"You ought to know that better than anyone else," laughed Don Fernando.
"You laugh! Very well; judge for yourself. I sought this person, whose
name it is needless to mention."
"So much the more so, as I know it already."
"You do? Very well, then. This morning a _caballero_, one of my
friends, gave me notice that the person in question also wished to
speak to me. All was working wonderfully. But guess my amazement when,
just as I was going to refund the money and throw up my engagement,
this personage announced to me that he had been reconciled to you, that
you were the best friends, and begged me to keep the hundred piastres
as an indemnification for the damage he had caused me."
"Was it this person, then, whom you went to meet tonight?"
"The same. I have only just left him."
"Very well: go on, _compadre_" (comrade).
"Well, _caballero_, since this affair has ended in a manner honourable
to me, as I flatter myself, I am at liberty to follow my own
inclinations, and am quite at your service, if you will do me the
honour to employ me."
"I will not say no; perhaps in a day or two I may find a use for your
services."
"You will not repent having employed me, señor. You will be always sure
to find me at--"
"Not a word on that subject," said Don Fernando, interrupting him
suddenly; "when the time comes, I shall find you."
"As you please, señor. Now permit me to take leave of you and this
honourable _caballero_, your friend."
"Adieu, Zapote. A happy journey."
The _lepero_ joyfully took to his road again.
"Señor," said Don Estevan, as soon as the latter had gone, "in a short
time we shall reach the _rancho_ (farmhouse) I inhabit with my mother;
it would glad me to offer you shelter for the night."
"Thanks for your courtesy, which I gratefully accept. Is the _rancho_
far from Las Norias?"
"Hardly a league. Were it daylight, you would be able to see from hence
the tall walls of the _hacienda._ Permit me to be your guide on the
road to my poor dwelling."
The cavaliers then bent to the left, entering a broad path lined with
aloes. Very soon the barking of several watchdogs, and two or three
specks of light which twinkled through the darkness, apprised them
that it would not be long before they reached the end of their tedious
journey. In fact, after riding some ten minutes longer, they found
themselves in front of a house, small, but apparently comfortable,
under the _zaguán_ (veranda) of which several persons, provided with
torches, seemed to be expecting their arrival.
They stopped before the porch, dismounted, gave their horses to a
_peon_, who led them away, and entered the dwelling, Don Estevan
preceding his guest in order to do the honours of his house.
They found themselves in a chamber of good dimensions, furnished with
sundry chairs, a few armchairs, and a massive table, on which the
cloth was laid for several persons. The whitewashed walls of the room
were adorned with prints, frightfully coloured, representing the four
seasons, the five quarters of the globe, &c.
A woman, no longer young, dressed with a certain degree of refinement,
and whose features, although marked by age, still preserved traces of
great beauty, stood in the middle of the room.
"Mother," said Don Estevan, bowing respectfully before her, "permit me
to present to you Don Fernando Carril, an honourable _caballero_, who
consents to be our guest tonight."
"He is welcome," answered Doña Manuela, with a gracious smile; "this
house and all that is in it is at his disposal."
"Many thanks, señora, for this kind reception."
At first sight of the stranger Doña Manuela had begun to tremble,
and had scarcely repressed an exclamation of surprise. The sound of
his voice struck her no less, and she cast a profoundly scrutinising
look over him; but after a moment she shook her head gently, as if
mistrusting the thought which had arisen.
"Be seated, señor," she said, pointing to the table with great
cordiality; "the supper shall be served directly. Your long ride will
have sharpened your appetite, and will make the frugality of the viands
less distasteful."
In fact, the meal was frugal, consisting of beans with red pepper, beef
dried in the sun, a fowl boiled in rice, rolls of maize, with _pulque_
and _mezcal_ to drink With great pleasure Doña Manuela watched the
viands disappear with which she loaded their plates. She encouraged
them by all the means in her power to satisfy their hunger.
When supper was over, they passed into an inner chamber, more
comfortably furnished, which appeared to be the reception room.
The conversation, which had naturally been rather languid at dinner,
now, little by little, grew more animated, and soon reached, thanks to
the efforts of Doña Manuela, that tone of pleasant familiarity which
banishes every constraint, and doubles the charms of familiar chat.
Don Fernando seemed to enter with all his heart into the desultory
conversation, which leaped without ceasing from one subject to another;
listening with complacency to the long stories of Doña Manuela, and
answering with apparent rankness the questions she asked him.
"Are you a _costeño_" (an inhabitant of the sea border), "or a _tierras
a dentro_" (one of those who dwell inland), "_caballero?_" the good
dame suddenly asked her guest.
"By my faith, señora," replied he, laughing, "I confess I feel some
difficulty in replying."
"Why so, señor?"
"For the simple reason that I have no idea where I was born."
"But you are _hijo del país_" (literally, a son of the country),--"a
Mexican, at all events?"
"Everything leads me to think so, señora; but I would not swear it."
"That is very singular. Does not your family reside in the province?"
A shadow crossed the face of Don Fernando. "No, señora," he replied
dryly.
The mistress of the house perceived she had touched a tender chord, and
hastened to turn the conversation.
"Of course you know Don Pedro de Luna?"
"Very little, señora; accident threw us together once. It is true the
circumstances were too singular for him to forget them easily; but it
remains to be seen whether I ever set foot in his _hacienda._"
"You are wrong, _caballero_; Don Pedro is a _cristiano Viejo_" (an old
Christian, i.e. a descendant of the early conquerors), "who exercises
hospitality after the fashion of old times: nothing makes him happier
than to practise it."
"Most unfortunately, important affairs call me to some distance, and I
fear I shall have no time to stop at his _hacienda._"
"Forgive the question," said Don Estevan; "but have you really the
intention of entering the prairie?"
"Why do you ask, _caballero?_"
"Because we are here on the extreme Indian frontier; and unless you
retrace your steps, it is only towards the wilderness you can bend
them."
"Well, then, it is my intention to go into the desert."
Don Estevan made a gesture of surprise.
"Forgive my pertinacity," said he; "but without doubt you must be
acquainted with the desert you intend to enter?"
"By your leave, señor, I am thoroughly acquainted with it."
"And knowing its dangers, dare you enter it alone?"
"I thought I had given you a proof today," said he, with an indefinable
smile, "that I dare many things."
"Yes, yes; I know your courage carries you on to rashness: but what you
would undertake is worse than temerity--it is madness!"
"Madness, señor! The word is too strong. Can a resolute man, well armed
and mounted, have anything to fear from the Indians?"
"If you had nothing to do but defend yourself against Indians and
wild beasts. I should be somewhat in your way of thinking, señor: a
determined white can make head against twenty redskins. But how will
you escape from the Tigercat?"
"From the Tigercat? Excuse me, _caballero_, but I do not understand you
at all."
"I will soon explain, señor. The Tigercat is a white. This man, from
reasons unknown to all, has joined the Apaches, has become one of their
chiefs, and sworn implacable hatred to all men of his own colour."
"I have heard vaguely of the man you mention; but, after all, he is the
only one of his race among the Indians. Redoubtable as he may be, he is
not invulnerable, I suppose; and a brave man might kill him."
"Unfortunately you are mistaken, _caballero_; this man is not the only
one of his race among the Indians; other bandits of his class are with
him."
"Yes," cried Doña Manuela; "his son among the rest, who, they say, is
as fierce a bandit as his father."
"Mother, that is only a surmise. If you come to proof, nothing can be
affirmed against Stoneheart."
"Who is the man of whom you speak?"
"His son, as people say; but one cannot be sure of it."
"And you call this man Stoneheart?"
"Yes, señor. For my own part, I know several instances of his
generosity, which indicate, on the contrary, a heart in its right
place, and an ardent spirit capable of noble deeds."
A slight blush overspread the face of Don Fernando.
"Let us return to the Tigercat," said he. "What have I to dread from
this man?"
"Everything. Concealed in the prairie, like a hideous _zopilote_
(vulture) on its point of rock, this wretch pounces upon the caravans,
whatever their strength, and pillages them; he murders in cold blood
the solitary travellers whom their evil destiny delivers into his
hands: his nets are stretched with such cruel skill, that none may
escape him. Listen to me, _caballero_: give up this journey, or you are
a lost man."
"I thank you for your advice, which, I know, is prompted by the
interest you take in me; nevertheless, I cannot follow it. But it is
too late; allow me to retire. I observed a hammock under the _zaguán_,
in which I could pass the night admirably."
"I will give orders to have my son's chamber prepared for you."
"I could not allow anyone to be disturbed on my account, señora; I am
an old traveller. Moreover, the night is already far gone. I swear you
would disoblige me by forcing me to accept the chamber of Don Estevan."
"Do as you think proper, _caballero_. A guest is one sent from God;
he ought to be master in the house he inhabits, as long as he chooses
to honour it with his presence. May the Lord watch over your repose
and bless your slumbers! My son shall show you the _corral_ (outhouse)
where your horse has been stabled, in case you should wish to depart
before the household is awake."
"Many thanks, once more, señorita. I hope to pay my respects to you
before I go."
Having exchanged a few more compliments with his hostess, Don Fernando
rose and left the room, accompanied by Don Estevan. The wish he
expressed, to sleep in a hammock under the _zaguán_, was not at all
extraordinary, and perfectly in accordance with the customs of a
country where the nights, by their beauty and freshness, compensate the
inhabitants for the overpowering heat of the day.
The American _ranchos_ all have a porch, formed by four, and often six
columns, outside the house, and which support an _azotea_ (flat roof).
In the large space between these columns, which are placed on either
side of the main entrance, hammocks are slung, in which the owners of
the dwellings themselves often pass the night, preferring to sleep
in the open air rather than endure the torrid heat which literally
converts into a stove the interior of the houses.
Don Estevan led his guest to the _corral_, explained to him the
mechanism of the lock, asked if he could be of any further service,
wished him good night, and retired into the house, leaving the door
open, so that Don Fernando might enter if he thought fit.
Doña Manuela awaited her son's return in the apartment where he had
left her. The old lady seemed restless.
"Well," she asked, immediately her son made his appearance, "what do
you think of this man, Estevan?"
"I, mother!" he answered, looking astonished; "What can I think of him?
I saw him today for the first time."
The old señora shook her head impatiently.
"You have been side by side for many hours; such a long _tête-à-tête_
should have given you an opportunity of studying and forming an opinion
of him."
"That man, my dear mother, during the short time I have been with
him, has appeared under so many different aspects, that it has been
altogether an impossibility, I will not say to form an opinion, but
even to gain a ray of light by means of which I could direct my study
of him. I believe his to be a strong nature, full of nerve, capable of
good or evil, accordingly as he follows the impulse of his heart or the
calculations of his egotism. At San Lucar everyone seems to dread him
instinctively,--for nothing ostensible in his conduct justifies the
repulsion he inspires; no one can say positively who he is: his life is
an impenetrable mystery."
"Estevan," said his mother, placing her hand heavily on his arm,
as if to lend force to the words she was about to utter, "a secret
presentiment warns me that the presence of this man in these parts
presages great misfortune. I cannot explain why. The moment he entered,
his features recalled a confused recollection of events that happened
long ago. I saw in his face points of resemblance with that of a
person dead, alas! How long?" She sighed. "When he spoke, the tone
of his voice sounded mournfully on my ear; for the voice completed
the likeness I had found in his face. Whoever this man may be, I am
convinced there is trouble, perhaps danger, in store for us. I am old,
my son; I have much experience; and, you know, one is seldom mistaken
at my age. Presentiments come from God; we must have faith in them.
Watch that man's doings as long as he remains here. I could wish you
had never brought him under our roof."
"What could I do, mother? Hospitality is a duty from which no one
should shrink."
"I do not reproach you, Estevan; you have acted according to your
conscience."
"God grant that you delude yourself, mother! After all, whatever the
man's intentions may be, if he seeks to injure us, as you suppose, we
can but countermine his machinations."
"No, Estevan; it is not exactly for ourselves I fear."
"For whom, then, mother?"
"Cannot you understand me?" said she, with, a mournful smile.
"_¡Vive Dios,_ mother! Let him beware. But no, it is impossible.
Nevertheless, I will go to the _hacienda_ at daybreak, and put Don
Pedro on his guard."
"Do not say a word to them, Estevan; but watch over them like a
faithful friend."
"Yes, mother, you are right," said Estevan, who had suddenly become
thoughtful. "I will surround Hermosa with a vigilant protection, so
secret that no one shall suspect it. I swear it, _¡vive Dios!_ I would
a thousand times rather die under the most atrocious torture, than see
her exposed anew to dangers like those of the last few days. And now,
mother, give me your blessing, and let me go."
"Go, my son; and God protect you!"
Don Estevan bent respectfully before his mother, and retired; but
before seeking repose, he made a minute examination of the house, and
did not extinguish his lamp till after he had convinced himself that
all was in perfect order.
As soon as Don Estevan had left him, Don Fernando threw himself into
the hammock, and closed his eyes. The night was calm and beautiful; the
stars studded the heavens with an infinite number of diamonds; the moon
spread her silver rays over the landscape; at intervals, the prolonged
baying of the watchdogs mingled with the abrupter bark of the _coyotes_
(prairie-wolves), whose sinister forms were often perceptible in the
distance, the transparency of the atmosphere permitting remote objects
to be easily distinguished.
All slept, or seemed to sleep.
Suddenly Don Fernando raised his head, and peered cautiously over
the edge of his hammock. Thoroughly convinced that silence reigned
throughout the house, he slipped to the ground; after carefully
listening, and prying into the darkness in all directions, he placed on
his head the accoutrements of his horse, and turned his steps towards
the _corral_.
Opening the door noiselessly, he whistled gently. At the signal, the
horse raised his head, and walked up to his master, who was holding the
door half open.
The latter caught him by the mane, caressed him playfully, and then
saddled and bridled him with the dexterity and speed only acquired by
constant habit. The task over, his master wrapped his hoofs in four
pieces of sheepskin, to deaden the sound of his steps, vaulted into the
saddle, and bending over the neck of the noble brute: "Santiago!" cried
he, "now is the time to prove your mettle."
The horse, as if he understood his master, dashed off into the
darkness, and took the direction of the river at the top of his speed.
Meanwhile the greatest silence pervaded the _rancho_, none of the
inhabitants of which seemed to be aware of this sudden flight.