Chapter Thirty.
A Yankee Jehu.
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 Peñon 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 protégés, 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 monté; 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.