After lumbering slowly across the rickety Arroyo Seco bridge, the
Seville-to-Madrid swung eastward on its gleaming rails and pursued,
across the desert uplands, a course parallel to that of the bandoleros.
From the coach windows on one side, the passengers could see Rafael
Perez, Ignacio Garcia, and Pio Estrada fleeing across the parched and
tawny flat on their plunder-laden, loping Manchegan ponies. They were
speeding for the distant gray and purple mountains.
A jump behind these worthies and rapidly overtaking them were Jacinto
Quesada and the golden-haired girl. Distinctly the passengers could make
out Felicidad and her kidnaper. And the sight was as a red muleta to a
Miura bull.
A young bride stolen from her husband! A young girl abducted by
highwaymen! That was she behind the last of the retreating
bandoleros--see the flying green skirt, see the glint of her golden hair
in the sun! They were taking her off with them, carrying her away into
the savage mountains! Had there been no men among all those creatures in
trousers scattered throughout the train--no men to rise in their
masculinity and to sacrifice their lives if need be, but at all hazards
to prevent this abominable crime?
Women screamed, and women prayed. Hideous visions rose before their
eyes; visions of the bandoleros in some craggy retreat shaking dice for
possession of the girl! One of the black-clad nuns fainted outright.
On its gleaming rails, the Seville-to-Madrid swerved once again. With
distance, the fleeing horsemen grew small, smaller. They were little as
bounding rabbits; then they were little as low-skimming birds. And then
at last they lost themselves in the ocean of ilex and thorny acacia, the
dun immensity of sand.
The Seville-to-Madrid had been under way for a full twenty minutes and
was nearing the steel cantilever bridge over the river Zancura, when a
man, lurching heavily and looking very sick, picked his steps slowly and
cautiously along the footboard on the right side of the train--that
footboard used by the train guards in going from compartment to
compartment of the many-coached continental-style caravan, collecting
tickets and locking the doors between stops. The man clung to door
knobs, window jambs and window sills. And gradually he worked forward
along half the length of the train.
At last he had progressed to a second-class coach that resounded with
the voices of indignant and outraged men, that quivered and rang with
bass and baritone curses in both Spanish and French. When he had closed
in upon this coach, the man on the footboard smiled triumphantly, yanked
open the door, and flung himself within.
For a space, it was not as though he had entered a crowded coach; it was
as though he had flung himself into a surf of rolling breakers. Masses
of words struck him with the velocity and flying weight of charging
masses of water. He spread his feet, braced his shoulders and chest to
the impacting masses of words, and waited.
The pounding tumulting seas crashed over him; he held his footing; they
receded, drew back, ebbed away. Then, before the great _zipizape_ of
words could recommence, he held up his hands for silence. Silence was
given him. He said:
"I am a Norte Americano, a Yanqui. In my country if a girl were kidnaped
by bandits, quite well I know what we Yanquis would do. But this is
Spain, not the United States. What are you Spaniards going to do?"
"What can we do, Senor Americano?" asked one of the cuadrilla of
bullfighters, a banderillero by his dress. "We ask you that--what can we
do?"
"Do not think it an everyday thing," spoke up the matador, Morales, "for
blossoming girls to be stolen by Spanish highwaymen and carried off into
the mountains. One reads about such happenings in the bizarre and
romantic novels of the elder Dumas; but one does not think to see such
things occur in real life.
"You would search far in our country's history for a parallel to this
outrageous crime! José Maria. Diego Corrientes, Agua-Dulce and Visco el
Borje left our women severely alone. They were simple-souled men of the
people, risen against oppression. Even as would any humble and pious and
hardworking labrador, so these bandoleros en grande feared God and
public opinion. Right well they knew they could continue to exist as
outlaws only by reason of the favor of Spanish public opinion, not to
speak of the favor of God. And they set the fashion for future Spanish
outlaws. They made the conventions by which all bandoleros are supposed
to conduct themselves to-day. The bandoleros, just before this man
Quesada, honored those conventions. El Vivillo and Pernales committed no
crimes against Spanish women.
"Senor Americano, you may have noticed that we Spaniards accord our
bandoleros a certain respect. Because they have been altogether
masculine, varonil, and yet treated our womenkind with the utmost
reverence, the bandoleros have wrung from us this esteem which amounts
sometimes even to love.
"And even this Jacinto Quesada to-day! He treated me with great
consideration, chatting pleasantly about his love of bullfighting and
other very human things. And he struck me as being a bandolero of the
splendid good old sort--the José Maria, the Visco el Borje sort! Why, he
even asked after the health of my wife, Marta, and my two little ones!
But now! To find out that he is a renegade, a damnable turncoat from the
old bandolero code, an inhuman wretch, a despicable rapist--_Porvida!_"
Morales' boyishly rounded face flamed with anger and with a great deal
more of shame.
"In my country," said the American, "should a man abduct a girl, a posse
would be organized at once, the criminal pursued, brought to bay, and
made to pay with his life for the crime. The posse would be composed of
every rich man, poor man, beggar man and thief in the community, and it
would never rest until its work was completely done and the girl
brought safely back to her promised husband."
Three of the bullfighters spoke up at once.
"A posse? We have never heard of that!"
"Well, I come from the western part of the United States, and if you
ever had lived there for even a short time, you could not be so
blissfully ignorant. When I say a posse I mean a _posse comitatus_,
which is a lawyer's term for the citizens who may be summoned to assist
an officer in enforcing the law. My father was a pioneer in the State of
California; he made his start in Inyo County mines and his millions in
Bakersfield oil wells; and many's the story he has told me of quickly
formed posses and their rapid, sure work. We would be forming a posse of
a sort, if we all agreed to go after this Jacinto Quesada and bring back
the girl."
One of the two yellow-costumed picadores was on his feet, his swarthy
face ruddy with agitation and strong emotion.
"Then, in the name of Spanish womanhood, let us do that!" he cried. "I,
Coruncho Lopez, the most superb picador in Spain, volunteer to be one of
the posse!"
"And I, Alfonso Robledo, a banderillero as great as any!"
"And I--"
Suddenly, those about to volunteer became tongue-tied; the whole
cuadrilla of bullfighters looked sheepish and confused. The youthful
matador, Manuel Morales, had stepped before them, on his face a cold and
contemptuous scowl.
"You are the peones of my cuadrilla," he said brutally, "and I am your
maestro. You will do exactly that which I order you to do and nothing
else! But, perhaps, you have forgotten the strict laws of discipline of
our profession?"
Shamefaced and abject, the whole cuadrilla replied at once, "Forgive us,
maestro. We await your orders."
Morales seemed to feel better after that. With the easy magnificence of
a matador and maestro, he turned to the American.
"Senor Americano," he said, "I have become a successful and renowned
espada only after years of hard work and vigilant heed to the duties of
my profession. And now that I am the great Morales, I am as much a slave
to my fame as any of my peones is the slave to me. In his offices in
Seville sits my manager, the Senor Don Arturo Guerra, signing contract
after contract; and these contracts I must fulfill, or lose much money
and much prestige with the _presidentes_ of bull rings and with the
_aficionados_. Therefore, I must be discreet, circumspect, and full of
forethought.
"Senor Americano, these peones have no franchise to speak for
themselves. They are but my thoughtless, irresponsible children. If I
did not rule them with a hand of iron, they would be off on a thousand
wild escapades in a month! But one of them, just now, said a very
splendid thing. 'In the name of Spanish womanhood,' he said, 'let us
form of ourselves a posse!'
"Carajo! I am discreet, circumspect, and full of forethought as the
great Morales should be, but my heart tells me those words are good
words! My heart leaps with eagerness to be pursuing the despicable
Jacinto Quesada in the name of Spanish womanhood!
"What are contracts! What is money! What is prestige, fame! Senor
Americano, join out with me, and we will chase this scoundrel up and
down the peninsula until we have bayed him down and brought back the
girl! If you wish it, I will command my whole cuadrilla to come with us;
but it is my own wish, that we two go alone and unencumbered. This same
Jacinto Quesada who stole the girl called me one of the three bravest
men in Spain. And he named himself as the second most brave man, and you
as the third! Let us go then, we two brave men together! Two such as we
are equal to a posse of a dozen common men!"
The blue-eyed American looked a little uncomfortable; he did not quite
know how to take the matador's flamboyant words. But he answered,
heartily enough:
"Sure I'll join out with you! My name is Carson--John Fremont
Carson--and here's my hand on it! But better take the whole cuadrilla
along with us. We two may be as wonderful as you say we are, but just
the same, numbers count, and every man can do his little bit to get back
the girl. And now--"
"In this posse I am included, too, of course!"
It was the Frenchman, Jacques Ferou. He, the one to all outward
appearances most injured and aggrieved by Jacinto Quesada's outrageous
conduct, had played little part in the proceedings up to this moment.
But now, his tone was very peremptory and harsh, and he looked as if he
meant business.
"Of course!"
"Por los Clavos de Cristo! we can't leave you out!"
The American produced a pencil and notebook.
"And now," he said, "to arrange the details. There will be horses
needed, and provisions and guides and--"
"It will be mules in the mountains," said one bullfighter.
"Manchegan ponies are cheap," said another.
"We will need Mausers and revolvers, too," said a third. "We cannot
conduct a man-hunt without weapons."
"But how will we finance the expedition?" asked the practical Frenchman.
"Myself, I have not a franc, what you call a peseta. And I have no means
of replenishing my rifled pockets!"
"Ah, then, it is for me to finance the expedition!" cried the matador,
Morales. "I will telegraph to Seville when we get off at the next stop,
and so much money will be sent me by Don Arturo, my manager, that you
will be surprised, astounded! It is just that I should do this--I and my
bullfighters make up the bulk of this troop; I am the most rich of you
all."
"I don't know about that," said the American dryly. "Please allow me to
go halves with you."
"Ah, I had forgotten; you Americans are all as rich as Monte Cristo. You
and I will share the expense, then. We get off at the next stop and make
our start after this Jacinto Quesada, do we not?"