“Yes, ’twas twenty-three he said,” confirmed another; “and do you remember how he reddened and laughed when I told him he was old enough to think of wedding?”
“But vexed enough,” added another, “when I repeated our old proverb, ‘Who goes far to marry, goes to deceive or be deceived.’ I meant no ill, but he turned on me like a hornet. But, poor young fellow, all his quick tempers are over now; he’ll be quiet enough till the Judgment day—cursed be the hand that struck him!”
“Come, come!” suddenly broke in Don Rafael, “no more of this chatter; clear the room for the Señor Alcalde,” and with much important bustle and portentous gravity the official in question entered. He had in fact been one of the first to hasten to the scene of the murder, for the time forgetting the dignity of his position, of which in his ragged frazada, his battered straw hat, and unkempt locks, there was little to remind either himself or his fellow villagers. However, on the alcalde being called for, he immediately dropped his rôle of idle gazer, and proceeded with the most stately formality to the reduction-works. After viewing the dead body, he made most copious notes of the supposed manner of assassination, which were chiefly remarkable in differing entirely from the reality; and he gave profuse orders for the following of the murderer or murderers, delivering at the same time to Don Rafael Sanchez the effects of the deceased, for safe keeping and ultimate transmission to the relatives, meanwhile delivering himself of many sapient remarks, to the great edification of his hearers.
It appeared upon examination of various persons connected with the reduction-works that the young American had been in the habit of riding forth at night, sometimes attended by a servant, but often alone, spending hours of the beautiful moonlight in exploring the deep cañons of the mountains, having, seemingly, a peculiar love for their wild solitudes and an utter disregard of danger. More than once when he had ventured forth alone, the gate-keeper or clerk had remonstrated, but he had laughed at their fears; and in fact it was the mere habit of caution that had suggested them, the whole country being at that time remarkably free from marauders, and the idea that John Ashley—almost a stranger, so courteous, so well liked by inferiors, as well as by those who called themselves his equals or superiors—should have a personal enemy had never entered the mind of even the most suspicious. But for once the cowards were justified; the brave man had fallen, the days of his young and daring life were ended.
The alcalde and Don Rafael were eloquent in grave encomiums of his worth and regret for his folly, as they at last left the reduction-works together. They had agreed that a letter must be written to the American consul in the city of Mexico, with full particulars, and that he should be asked to communicate the sad event to the family of the deceased; but as several days, or even weeks, must necessarily elapse before he could be heard from, it was decided that the murdered man should be buried upon the following day. To wait longer was both useless and unusual. And so, these matters being satisfactorily arranged, the alcalde and administrador, both perhaps ready for breakfast, parted.
The latter at the gate of the hacienda met the major-domo, who whispered to him mysteriously, and finally led him to the courtyard, where the forsaken mule was munching his fodder. A pair of sandals lay there. Pedro, had he wished, could have shown a striped blanket and hat that he had picked up near the gateway and concealed; but the mule and sandals were patent to all.
“Well, what then?” cried Don Rafael, impatiently, when he had minutely inspected them, turning the sandals with his foot as he stared at the animal.
“Oh, nothing,” answered the major-domo; “I am perhaps a fool, but the ranchero is gone.”
Don Rafael started—fell into a deep study—turned away—came back, and laid his hand upon the major-domo’s arm. This was the first suggestion that had been advanced of the possibility of the murderer having sought his victim from within the walls of the great house. “Silencio!” he said; “what matters it to us how the man died? There is more in this than behooves you or me to meddle with.”
The two men looked at each other. “Why disturb the Señora Doña Isabel with such matters? The American is dead. The ranchero can be nothing to her,” said Don Rafael, sententiously. “He who gives testimony unasked brings suspicion upon himself. No, no! leave the matter to his countrymen; they have a consul here who has nothing to do but inquire into such matters.”