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.