The two were Spaniards. They wore the uniform of the Guardia Civil, and
they rode hairy, vigorous little police ponies. They had been in the
saddle since daybreak, persistently pushing southward. The cobs were
dog-weary but as steady-paced as machines of clockwork; the men were
hunched of shoulder, heavy-headed, their faces coated with a gray-brown
powder of dust.
They drew rein atop a naked hummock in the immensity of sand and ilex
and thorny acacia. At the hip of the younger and taller of the two was
slung a pair of binoculars. The one, and then the other, trained these
glasses upon the rolling, everlasting veldt and swept the horizon round,
their scrutiny long, patient, and searching.
All the long morning and the longer, more dreary afternoon, they had
seen upon the endless despoblado only half-wild cattle and half-wild
asses, and an occasional high-soaring falcon or an ugly, three-foot-long
eyed-lizard. And this time was not the first time they had paused to
peer through the binoculars; they had paused often, and then continued
on without remark. Now, however, as he put back the glasses in their
leather sheath, the younger policeman rather bitterly said:
"There is no one abroad upon La Mancha. Not even a solitary salteador de
camino hiding out from us of the Guardia Civil."
"Yet I tell you, Miguel--most surely are they out there somewhere!"
returned his compañero; vehemently dissenting. "How could they have
attained, so soon, to the Sierra Morena ahead--I ask you that!"
Touching their ponies with their barbed heels, they enterprised once
more upon the long traverse. There was a terrible sun that day, a sun
African in the ferocity of its passion. The sun glare tortured their
eyes. It caused their lacquered three-cornered police hats, made of
shiny patent leather, to reflect and flash like the mirrors of a
heliograph. The men sweated until they were as dry as cinders and could
sweat no more.
In the more subdued glare of the late afternoon, the two came at length
to the brown rolling foothills toward which they had been making
throughout the whole hideous day. The foothills billowed away, in
undulations rising even higher and higher, until finally they became
part of a distant and purple alpland of massive and lofty peaks--the
exalted spires and crags of the Sierra Morena.
As their jaded ponies took doggedly the initial rise, the younger and
taller of the two policemen--he called Miguel--drew from his breast a
yellow paper on which was mimeographed a copy of a typewritten telegram.
He commenced to read aloud.
The great Manuel Morales--his full cuadrilla--an American, the
Senor Don John Fremont Carson, and a Frenchman, name unknown. It is
especially important that you discover news of the American,
Carson; he is a millionaire and of high social position in his own
country. Both the American Ambassador and the Bank of Spain desire
to ascertain his whereabouts, his reason for carrying such a large
sum of money upon his person, and his purpose in setting off into
the wilderness. The Bank of Spain is also much interested in the
well-being of Manuel Morales, for he also withdrew a large account
by telegraph before disappearing from sight.
The nine men left the Seville-to-Madrid at Alcazar de San Juan,
four days ago, secured horses and enough provisions to last them a
week and, traveling together, rode southward towards the Sierra
Morena. They were well-armed, having bought carbines and automatic
pistols from the Jewish cacique of Alcazar, Dicenta. They told no
one their errand. They took no guides.
You of the Guardia Civil, find them and give them escort. Report
all information to me--Echegaray, _Ministro de Gobernacion_.
He looked up now, the young smooth-faced policeman who had been reading,
and turned his handsome head to gaze back over the long monotony of
purgatorial desert. It was the words, scribbled in ink in a strong hand
and added like a postscript or annotation to the telegraphed
instructions, which he went on to read aloud now:
They are somewhere in Ciudad Real or Jaen. The country they are
traversing is lawless and sparsely-populated, a country infested
with ladrones, among whom the most notable is the notorious
Quesada.
Spain will never forgive us if any harm should come to the great
Morales. And we must answer to the American Ambassador should this
John Fremont Carson be not safeguarded. The Constabulary will
please give its most careful attention to the search.--Alvarez,
Captain-General of the Guardia Civil for the District.
Putting the yellow paper back in the breast of his tight blue jacket
faced with red, the younger policeman, Miguel, rode on up the slope
beside his compañero?--a squat, fiercely mustached and apelike fellow.
"Pascual," he asked presently, "would you know that magnificent one,
Morales, should you meet him face to face--"
"Seguramente, yes! Have I not watched him murder a thousand bulls?"
Then, thoughtfully, the apelike one added:
"Once we chance upon their spoor, once we scent them from afar, it
should be a most simple matter for us of the Guardia Civil to run down
these fools-errant of Manuel Morales. We know these plains and
foothills; they do not. And they are a large troop and must make a great
to-do of noise and dust whenever they move about. It is not as though we
seek a bandolero riding alone, friend Miguel. A bandolero riding alone
is a very fox to catch!"
"Ah, that Jacinto Quesada!" ejaculated the other with boyish enthusiasm.
"Is not he the crafty lizard, the sly tricky one? He has given us more
work to do than any twenty other lawbreakers in Spain. If Morales and
his fools-errant--as you call them, Pascual--conceal their movements
but half so well as does he, we will be chasing will-o'-the-wisps for
the next hundred years! But, by the way, Pascual, could you describe
Jacinto Quesada to me?"
The older man pondered.
"That is most difficult," he said at length, chewing in a ruminating
manner one end of his black mustache. "He is of the Sierra Nevada, this
Quesada; he is not a native of La Mancha. Few men hereabouts could
describe him, I think; he does not go abroad much to fiestas and wedding
feasts, since he took to the highroads, you know. And the few folk that
have met him since he became a bandolero have been too frightened to
note well what he looked like. But I have been told by a paisano of his,
a serrano of the Sierra Nevada, that he looks very much like me,
myself!"
That last was said with downright pride. The policeman, Pascual, did not
even take trouble to conceal his vain pleasure in the thought, his
flattered conceit in himself. He sat a little straighter in the saddle
and, with self-conscious braggadocio, fingered his black mustache,
looking about him fiercely the while.
He was squat, broadly uncouth of shoulder, prognathous jawed--an ugly
apelike sort. There was something bestially predatory in the simian look
of him which the black mustache rather heightened than detracted from.
He did not resemble any of his immediate progenitors who had been men of
Aragon and Guardias Civiles every one. More he resembled, perhaps,
certain Miquelets and reclaimed brigands from whose loins his line had
originally sprung. He did not look at all like Jacinto Quesada!
The youthful Civil Guard eyed the apelike Pascual a moment, and then
derisively laughed.
"That is strange," he said, with a sneer. "Certain Gypsies of my
acquaintance have seen Quesada in the mountains and on the plains.
Outlaws such as he often repair to the Gitanos when hard-pressed, you
know; the Gypsies look upon them as blood-brothers, for the Gypsies are
all thieves. And it is strange, Pascual, but these Gypsies of my
acquaintance have told me that _I_ was the living image of Jacinto
Quesada. He is very young, they say, little more than a boy even, and he
is tall and smooth-shaven and handsome, indeed, very much like me!"
Youthful, tall, smooth of face and very handsome was, indeed, that
policeman called Miguel. He was lean, supple and gallant looking as a
sword of Toledo.
"Fools and children tell the truth," returned the apelike Pascual,
quoting an old Spanish proverb. Then, barbing it with a sting of his own
making, he added: "But Gitanos, never!"
Surlily, he rode on ahead, the while the other slid down from his horse
and ran in pursuit of his shiny leather police hat which was tumbling in
a quick succession of flip-flops down the hill. He had knocked it from
his own head inadvertently when, while talking, he had raised the
binoculars to his eyes for another look back over La Mancha.
After a short erratic chase, Miguel retrieved his recalcitrant
headgear; but, strangely, he did not return immediately to the saddle.
Instead, stooping low, he stood motionless near the place where he had
picked up the hat, peering down as at a nugget of gold half hidden in
the dust and grass. Then, becoming altogether inexplicable in his
actions, he went scurrying off up the slope at a tangent, his body bent
far forward, his head turned toward the ground, and his face sharp and
pale with excitement and expectancy.
"Caspita!" he was heard by Pascual to mutter. "Caspita!"--"Wonderful!
Wonderful!"
Every so often, he halted and stooped lower, crouching almost to the
very ground. It was as though, each time, he discovered something of
sober interest to him and paused to examine that something.
Pascual followed him with puzzled and astounded eyes. At last, as the
curious performance persisted, he called out, "_Dios hombre!_ what ails
you, man?"
His face flushed, his eyes smiling with triumph, the youthful and
handsome Miguel came back to the spot where he had started his
mysterious shadow-dance up the hillside.
"Pascual Montara!" he called. "This way, quick!"
As the other trotted his pony over, he pointed a finger to the ground
before him and said, "Do you see that which I see, Pascual?"
"Seguramente, yes."
"What is it, then?"
"Carajo, Miguel! it is only a handful of grass, plucked and left in a
tiny hillock by some one."
"Bueno! But who plucked it, then, and left it in a heap upon the
ground?"
"_Zut!_ How should I know? Who is it plucks grass, anyway?"
The young policeman seemed to take joy in the rôle of Grand Inquisitor.
He smiled a superior smile and moved on a few feet, and then again
halted.
"And this--what is this?" he demanded, pointing before him once more.
"You buffoon, you--what game are you playing with me? It is only another
hillock of plucked grass, as any fool can see!"
"And this?" The Grand Inquisitor had moved on another couple of yards.
"I shall call it a mountain, an it please you better. The Devil take you
and your little hills of grass, Miguel Alvarado!"
"And this?" Once again the policeman with the superior smile had moved
on up the hillside. But this time he did not point at any hillock of
dead herbage.
"That? Why, that is only a cross made by two sticks that have fallen by
chance one upon the other."
"Which way does the longest arm point, Pascual?"
"Straight up and down the slope."
"_Muy bueno!_ I have pointed out everything to you, then. Chew upon what
you have seen, Spaniard!"
He returned to his horse, mounted and started on. The apelike Pascual,
his face a study in curiosity, drew alongside.
"You have asked me a lot of questions, Miguel Alvarado," he said. "Now I
will thank you a thousand times if you will explain your great mystery
away."
"Great mystery--za! It is only because you are a lunkhead that you
perceive any great mystery here. There are Gitanos encamped in the hills
ahead, that is all!"
"Did those hillocks of plucked grass spell out that for you?"
"Yes; and the crossed sticks, also. The hillocks and the crossed sticks
are the Gypsies' trail--what they call their patteran. They leave them
in their wake that their brethren, who have lagged behind, may be guided
by them to the meeting-place."
"_Y pues?_" grunted Pascual. "Well, and what of that? It is a matter of
no moment to me. But hola! why turn your horse to the right?"
"I am going to the camp of the Zincali. They may have word of these men
we seek. Should they have seen Morales and the rest upon the plains, or
even have heard of their presence abroad, they will tell me such news as
they have by chance acquired. Do not come with me, Pascual Montara, if
you do not wish to."
Now, it is against all orders and precedent for one of the Spanish
constabulary to go where his fellow goes not; the men of the Guardia
Civil hunt forever in braces. The apelike Pascual grumbled, but loyally
he followed his arrogant and imperious camarada.
Their horses topped the rise and, suddenly taking heart, entered briskly
a tiny _barranca_ set transverse between the hilltops. It was only a
long gully or dingle, but it was cool and reposeful with wild olive and
algarroba trees, white buckthorn, holly and arbutus. Through gutters
strewn with moss-overgrown boulders, edged with rhododendrons and
overarched by oleanders, raced down the whole length of it a glad,
loud-chattering run of water.
Sighing their delight, the two surprised and pleasured policemen rode
under an upstanding and ancient wild olive at its portal and plunged
into the secret, beautiful place. Instantly a great flutter of
butterflies of all sizes and colors lifted in spangled clouds about
them.
"But the Gypsies may be a great way ahead in the hills!" grumbled
Pascual filled with a hasty but mighty desire to linger in this
barranca, smoking cigarettes and dreaming the moments away in the cool
of some shady tree.
All on the moment, the youthful Miguel Alvarado was off his horse again.
They were following a narrow, barely discernible trail up the canyon's
deep long alley; along this trail he now ran, leading his pony by the
bridle and looking ever to the left side. Soon he paused and looked back
at Pascual Montara.
"The Gitanos have pitched their tents just beyond the first turn above,"
he announced.
"Hola! Have you seen more of their sign writing in grass-ricks and
sticks?"
"Si, Pascual. Look well at the forked rod set upright in the soft loam
to the left of the trail--one prong is broken off, the other points to
the right. I knew, if it was here, it would be found to the left of the
trail. It is a signpost only set up to guide night travelers. The
Gitanos erected it here no more than an hour, or an hour and a half
ago."
Pascual grunted noncommittally. But the younger man seemed possessed of
a strange and febrile excitement.
"Let us bathe our faces and heads in the runlet," he suggested urgently.
"It would be an error of strategy if we failed to look as gallant as
possible when we ride into the camp of the Zincali. Besides, the Gypsy
girls may not be overclean themselves, Pascual, but greatly they admire
a Busno--a White-blood--with a face freshly laved and as handsome as
yours or mine!"
"Za! The Gypsy wenches are all jades and strumpets!"
But he went, this surly Pascual Montara, and bathed his head in the
brook. Puffing prodigiously, he mounted and rode on beside the other.
Miguel Alvarado looked altogether the gay and haughty cavalier after his
ablutions. Pascual could not help eyeing in admiration his camarada's
lean, clean-cut youthful profile, his smooth, brown, handsome face.
Alvarado's cheeks were tinged with red, his eyes bright and sparkling as
though with some concealed but hopeful expectancy.
"You bristle with eagerness, senor caballero of my soul!" remarked
Pascual slyly.
Miguel Alvarado shrugged his shoulders, but did not answer. Suspicion
growing in his glance, the apelike one continued to eye him. Then, as
if he were accusing his camarada of something rather to be ashamed of,
he said pointedly:
"It is because Gypsies are so near, that you burn and bristle--is it
not? You are enamored of them; they captivate you with their uncouth
glamors; towards them you are drawn, eh?
"Ah, I understand now, Miguel, that which heretofore has made you seem
mysterious in my eyes--your trick of reading cabalistic signs written in
chalk on the stonework of bridges and the adobe of posadas and
_providencias_; your trick of reading hillocks of grass and crosses of
sticks placed beside the road; and your trick, too, of ordering your
pony about in the thieves' Latin of the Gitanos. You are like so many
other Moors of Andalusia, Miguel Alvarado. You are one of _Los del
Aficion_--Those of the Predilection! I have guessed rightly, have I
not?"
Miguel Alvarado shrugged his shoulders once again, and smiled his
superior smile. Lightly, he remarked, "The Gypsy wenches are like
she-leopards, soft and caressing of movement, but free and bold of eye.
I cannot resist the lure in their golden glances."
The other snorted and spat disgustedly down into the watercourse. He
drew a little away from Miguel Alvarado. After that, he rode on, through
the gathering dusk, very much in the manner of a man companioned by one
possessed of a demon--full of a certain respect but also full of reserve
and caution. Scarcely could you say he became more at his ease, more the
boon compañero and dorado. Was not the man he rode with one of Those of
the Predilection?
In Spain, especially in Andalusia, there has long existed a large class
of men given over utterly to a zest for Gitanos, their ways of life,
their dances and their songs. These admirers of the Gypsies cannot shake
off the fascination; they follow after the wandering Roms like the
slaves of an evil eye; they cultivate the Cales, the Black Men of Zend,
wherever met; they delight to watch the strange obscene dances of the
Gypsy maids that are like nothing so much as writhings of snakes in an
ecstasy of desire. These men are Those of the Predilection.
In the hushed and golden gloaming, they came at last, those two of the
Guardia Civil, to a turning of the narrow canyon and then, beyond, to a
Gypsy camp set in an opening among the trees. The brown tents were
patched with rags of a hundred hues, and strings of rags, slovenly
washed and as variegated, hung drooping and gathering smoke between the
ridgepoles and the trees.
There were seven dusty dun wagons in a wide circle, and great huddles of
gaunt and hungry dogs lazying about, and horses, foals, and burros
coming and going at will among the trees. From the limbs of the trees
dangled all manner of saddles, traces, and other odds and ends of
harness. There were three fires sending black smoke and dancing sparks
up into the lines of washing and the overarching greenery; and there
were a dozen men and women, and three times that many children, postured
about the fires and beneath the wagons.
"Alto à la Guardia Civil!" bellowed thunderously Pascual Montara,
thinking to give the Gypsies a start with this dread call of the police.
The men about the fires did not move. The golden-skinned sloe-eyed
women, stooped above the pots and kettles, looked up idly. Only the
rabble of children seemed affrighted; they scurried away, those
tousle-headed, chocolate-brown, ragged brats, some of even five and six
years old stark naked, and hid themselves in the black insides of the
wagons.
A young man, his shirt open to the waist, a yellow _faja_ or scarf wound
about his middle, was busily engaged with winding a battered accordion.
It was outlandishly sweet under his hands. Nearby, a Gypsy woman of
seventeen nursed a new-born bantling, her breast uncovered. A slim young
girl leaned against the trunk of an algarroba, pensively brushing the
calf of one nut-brown leg with the toes of the other. A man, tall,
massive and nobly upright of port, got up from beside one of the fires
and advanced slowly toward the two policemen on the edge of the
clearing.
A red kerchief tightly bound his head, and he wore the leather slop of a
blacksmith. He had a short, curly grizzled beard. What with his gigantic
body, herculean shoulders, monolithic throat, and haughty, savagely
beautiful head, he looked like some Byzantine emperor of the old Roman
strain. He was sixty, but he had every appearance of being under
forty-eight.
Even as the colossal one approached, Miguel Alvarado caught sight of the
slim young nut-brown girl under the algarroba tree. He went deathly
pale. He clutched at his throat, devouring her with his gaze. His eyes
were like two hot pulsing embers.
"Go forward to meet this man, Pascual Montara," at length he stuttered.
"His name is Pepe Flammenca. He is a Gypsy count and lords it over the
clan encamped here. Find out what he knows of Morales and the others.
Question him shrewdly; he may know much!"
Without realizing that Miguel Alvarado was not to follow, Pascual
pressed forward obediently. Meanwhile, the other policeman turned his
horse in between the trees, skirted the clearing, and approached the
spot where the Gypsy girl stood.