The Rifle Rangers

Chapter Thirty Four.

An odd Way of opening a Letter

“Has any of you heard of Dubrosc on the route?” I inquired of my comrades.

No; nothing had been heard of him since the escape of Lincoln.

“Faix, Captain,” said the Irishman, “it’s meself that thinks Mister Dubrosc won’t throuble any ov us any more. It was a purty lick that same, ayquil to ould Donnybrook itself.”

“It is not easy to kill a man with a single blow of a clubbed rifle,” observed Clayley; “unless, indeed, the lock may have struck into his skull. But we are still living, and I think that is some evidence that the deserter is dead. By the way, how has the fellow obtained such influence as he appeared to have among them, and so soon, too?”

“I think, Lieutenant,” replied Raoul, “Monsieur Dubrosc has been here before.”

“Ha! say you so?” I inquired, with a feeling of anxiety.

“I remember, Captain, some story current at Vera Cruz, about a Creole having married or run away with a girl of good family there. I am almost certain Dubrosc was the name; but it was before my time, and I am unacquainted with the circumstances, I remember, however, that the fellow was a gambler, or something of the sort; and the occurrence made much noise in the country.”

I listened with a sickening anxiety to every word of these details. There was a painful correspondence between them and what I already knew. The thought that this monster could be in any way connected with her was a disagreeable one. I questioned Raoul no further. Even could he have detailed every circumstance, I should have dreaded the relation.

Our conversation was interrupted by the creaking of a rusty hinge. The door opened, and several men entered. Our blinds were taken off, and, oh, how pleasant to look upon the light! The door had been closed again, and there was only one small grating, yet the slender beam through this was like the bright noonday sun. Two of the men carried earthen platters filled with frijoles, a single tortilla in each platter. They were placed near our heads, one for each of us.

“It’s blissid kind of yez, gentlemen,” said Chane; “but how are we goin’ to ate it, if ye plaze?”

“The plague!” exclaimed Clayley; “do they expect us to lick this up without either hands, spoons, or knives?”

“Won’t you allow us the use of our fingers?” asked Raoul, speaking to one of the guerilleros.

“No,” replied the man gruffly.

“How do you expect us to eat, then?”

“With your mouths, as brutes should. What else?”

“Thank you, sir; you are very polite.”

“If you don’t choose that, you can leave it alone,” added the Mexican, going out with his companions, and closing the door behind them.

“Thank you, gentlemen!” shouted the Frenchman after them, in a tone of subdued anger. “I won’t please you so much as to leave it alone. By my word!” he continued, “we may be thankful – it’s more than I expected from Yañez – that they’ve given us any. Something’s in the wind.” So saying, the speaker rolled himself on his breast, bringing his head to the dish.

“Och! the mane haythins!” cried Chane, following the example set by his comrade; “to make dacent men ate like brute bastes! Och! murder an’ ouns!”

“Come, Captain; shall we feed?” asked Clayley.

“Go on. Do not wait for me,” I replied.

Now was my time to read the note. I rolled myself under the grating, and, after several efforts, succeeded in gaining my feet. The window, which was not much larger than a pigeon-hole, widened inwards like the embrasure of a gun-battery. The lower slab was just the height of my chin; and upon this, after a good deal of dodging and lip-jugglery, I succeeded in spreading out the paper to its full extent.

“What on earth are you at, Captain?” inquired Cayley, who had watched my manoeuvres with some astonishment.

Raoul and the Irishman stopped their plate-licking and looked up.

“Hush! go on with your dinners – not a word!” I read as follows:

To-night your cords shall be cut, and you must escape as you best can afterwards. Do not take the road back, as you will be certain to be pursued in that direction; moreover, you run the risk of meeting other parties of the guerilla. Make for the National Road at San Juan or Manga de Clavo. Your posts are already advanced beyond these points. The Frenchman can easily guide you. Courage, Captain! Adieu!

P.S. – They waited for you. I had sent one to warn you; but he has either proved traitor or missed the road. Adieu! adieu!

“Good heavens!” I involuntarily exclaimed; “the man that Lincoln – .”

I caught the paper into my lips again, and chewed it into a pulp, to avoid the danger of its falling into the hands of the guerilla.

I remained turning over its contents in my mind. I was struck with the masterly style – the worldly cunning exhibited by the writer. There was something almost unfeminine about it. I could not help being surprised that one so young, and hitherto so secluded from the world, should possess such a knowledge of men and things. I was already aware of the presence of a powerful intellect, but one, as I thought, altogether unacquainted with practical life and action. Then there was the peculiarity of her situation.

Is she a prisoner like myself? or is she disguised, and perilling her life to save mine? or can she be – Patience! To-night may unravel the mystery.

Chapter Thirty Five.

The Cobra-di-Capello

Up to this moment my intention had been engrossed with the contents of the note, and I had no thought of looking outward. I raised myself on tiptoe, stretching my neck as far as I could into the embrasure.

A golden sunlight was pouring down upon broad, green leaves, where the palms grew wildly. Red vines hung in festoons, like curtains of scarlet satin. There were bands of purple and violet – the maroon-coloured morus, and the snowy flowers of the magnolia – a glittering opal. Orange-trees, with white, wax-like flowers, were bending under their golden globes. The broad plumes of the corozo palm curved gracefully over, their points trailing downwards, and without motion.

A clump of these grew near, their naked stems laced by a parasite of the lliana species, which rose from the earth, and, traversing diagonally, was lost in the feathery frondage above. These formed a canopy, underneath which, from tree to tree, three hammocks were extended. One was empty; the other two were occupied. The elliptical outlines, traceable through the gauzy network of Indian grass, proved that the occupants were females.

Their faces were turned from me. They lay motionless: they were asleep.

As I stood gazing upon this picture, the occupant of the nearest hammock awoke, and turning, with a low murmur upon her lips, again fell asleep. Her face was now towards me. My heart leaped, and my whole frame quivered with emotion. I recognised the features of Guadalupe Rosales.

One limb, cased in silk, had fallen over the selvage of her pendent couch, and hung negligently down. The small satin slipper had dropped off, and was lying on the ground. Her head rested upon a silken pillow, and a band of her long black hair, that had escaped from the comb, straggling over the cords of the hammock, trailed along the grass. Her bosom rose with a gentle heaving above the network as she breathed and slept.

My heart was full of mixed emotions – surprise, pleasure, love, pain. Yes, pain; for she could thus sleep – sleep sweetly, tranquilly – while I, within a few paces of her couch, was bound and brutally treated!

“Yes, she can sleep!” I muttered to myself, as my chagrin predominated in the tumult of emotions. “Ha! heavens!”

My attention was attracted from the sleeper to a fearful object. I had noticed a spiral-like appearance upon the lliana. It had caught my eye once or twice while looking at the sleeper; but I had not dwelt upon it, taking it for one vine twined round another – a peculiarity often met with in the forests of Mexico.

A bright sparkle now attracted my eye; and, on looking at the object attentively, I discovered, to my horror, that the spiral protuberance upon the vine was nothing else than the folds of a snake! Squeezing himself silently down the parasite – for he had come from above – the reptile slowly uncoiled two or three of the lowermost rings, and stretched his glistening neck horizontally over the hammock. Now, for the first time, I perceived the horned protuberance on his head, and recognised the dreaded reptile – the macaurel (the cobra of America).

In this position he remained for some moments, perfectly motionless, his neck proudly curved like that of a swan, while his head was not twelve inches from the face of the sleeper. I fancied that I could see the soft down upon her lip playing under his breath!

He now commenced slowly vibrating from side to side, while a low, hissing sound proceeded from his open jaws. His horns projected out, adding to the hideousness of his appearance; and at intervals his forked tongue shot forth, glancing in the sun like a purple diamond.

He appeared to be gloating over his victim, in the act of charming her to death. I even fancied that her lips moved, and her head began to stir backward and forward, following the oscillations of the reptile.

All this I witnessed without the power to move. My soul as well as my body was chained; but, even had I been free, I could have offered no help. I knew that the only hope of her safety lay in silence. Unless disturbed and angered, the snake might not bite; but was he not at that moment distilling some secret venom upon her lips?

“Oh, Heaven!” I gasped out, in the intensity of my fears, “is this the fiend himself? She moves! – now he will strike! Not yet – she is still again. Now – now! – mercy! she trembles! – the hammock shakes – she is quivering under the fascin – Ha!”

A shot rang from the walls – the snake suddenly jerked back his head – his rings flew out, and he fell to the earth, writhing as if in pain!

The girls started with a scream, and sprang simultaneously from their hammocks.

Grasping each other by the hand, with terrified looks they rushed from the spot and disappeared.

Several men ran up, ending the snake with their sabres. One of them stooped, and examining the carcase of the dead reptile, exclaimed:

“Carai! there is a hole in his head – he has been shot!”

A moment after, half a dozen of the guerilleros burst open the door and rushed in, crying out as they entered:

“Quien tira?” (Who fired?)

“What do you mean?” angrily asked Raoul, who had been in ill-humour ever since the guerillero had refused him a draught of water.

“I ask you who fired the shot?” repeated the man.

“Fired the shot!” echoed Raoul, knowing nothing of what had occurred outside. “We look like firing a shot, don’t we? If I possessed that power, my gay friend, the first use I should make of it would be to send a bullet through that clumsy skull of yours.”

“Santissima!” ejaculated the Mexican, with a look of astonishment. “It could not be these – they are all tied!”

And the Mexicans passed out again, leaving us to our reflections.

Chapter Thirty Six.

The Head-Quarters of the Guerilla

Mine were anything but agreeable. I was pained and puzzled. I was pained to think that she– dearer to me than life – was thus exposed to the dangers that surrounded us. It was her sister that had occupied the other hammock.

“Are they alone? Are they prisoners in the hands of these half-robbers? May not their hospitality to us have brought them under proscription? And are they not being carried – father, mother, and all – before some tribunal? Or are they travelling for protection with this band – protection against the less scrupulous robbers that infest the country?”

It was not uncommon upon the Rio Grande, when rich families journeyed from point to point, to pay for an escort of this sort. This may elucidate – .

“But I tell yez I did hear a crack; and, be my sowl! it was the sargint’s rifle, or I’ve lost me sinses intirely.”

“What is it?” I asked, attracted to the conversation of my comrades.

“Chane says he heard a shot, and thinks it was Lincoln’s,” answered Clayley.

“His gun has a quare sound, Captain,” said the Irishman, appealing to me. “It’s diffirint intirely from a Mexican piece, and not like our own nayther. It’s a way he has in loadin’ it.”

“Well – what of that?”

“Why, Raowl says one of them axed him who fired. Now, I heerd a shot, for my ear was close till the door here. It was beyant like; but I cud swear upon the blissed crass it was ayther the sargint’s rifle or another as like it as two pays.”

“It is very strange!” I muttered, half in soliloquy, for the same thought had occurred to myself.

“I saw the boy, Captain,” said Raoul; “I saw him crossing when they opened the door.”

“The boy! – what boy?” I asked.

“The same we brought out of the town.”

“Ha! Narcisso! – you saw him?”

“Yes; and, if I’m not mistaken, the white mule that the old gentleman rode to camp. I think that the family is with the guerilla, and that accounts for our being still alive.”

A new light flashed upon me. In the incidents of the last twenty hours I had never once thought of Narcisso. Now all was clear – clear as daylight. The zambo whom Lincoln had killed – poor victim! – was our friend, sent to warn us of danger; the dagger, Narcisso’s – a token for us to trust him. The soft voice – the small hand thrust under the tapojo – yes, all were Narcisso’s!

A web of mystery was torn to shreds in a single moment. The truth did not yield gratification. No – but the contrary. I was chagrined at the indifference exhibited in another quarter.

“She must know that I am here, since her brother is master of the fact – here, bleeding and bound. Yet where is her sympathy? She sleeps! She journeys within a few paces of me, where I am tied painfully; yet not a word of consolation. No! She is riding upon her soft cushion, or carried upon a litera, escorted, perhaps, by this accomplished villain, who plays the gallant cavalier upon my own barb! They converse together, perhaps of the poor captives in their train, and with jest and ridicule – he at least; and she can hear it, and then fling herself into her soft hammock and sleep – sleep sweetly – calmly?”

These bitter reflections were interrupted. The door creaked once more upon its hinges. Half a dozen of our captors entered. Our blinds were put on, and we were carried out and mounted as before.

In a few minutes a bugle rang out, and the route was resumed.

We were carried up the stream bottom – a kind of glen, or Cañada. We could feel by the cool shade and the echoes that we were travelling under heavy timber. The torrent roared in our ears, and the sound was not unpleasant. Twice or thrice we forded the stream, and sometimes left it, returning after having travelled a mile or so. This was to avoid the cañons, where there is no path by the water. We then ascended a long hill, and after reaching its summit commenced going downwards.

“I know this road well,” said Raoul. “We are going down to the hacienda of Cenobio.”

“Pardieu!” he continued. “I ought to know this hill!”

“For what reason?”

“First, Captain, because I have carried many a bulto of cochineal and many a bale of smuggled tobacco over it; ay, and upon nights when my eyes were of as little service to me as they are at present.”

“I thought that you contrabandistas hardly needed the precaution of dark nights?”

“True, at times; but there were other times when the Government became lynx-eyed, and then smuggling was no joke. We had some sharp skirmishing. Sacre! I have good cause to remember this very hill. I came near making a jump into purgatory from the other side of it.”

“Ha! how was that?”

“Cenobio had got a large lot of cochineal from a crafty trader at Oaxaca. It was cachéd about two leagues from the hacienda in the hills, and a vessel was to drop into the mouth of the Medellin to take it on board.

“A party of us were engaged to carry it across to the coast; and, as the cargo was very valuable, we were all of us armed to the teeth, with orders from the patrone to defend it at all hazards. His men were just the fellows who would obey that order, coming, as it did, from Cenobio.

“The Government somehow or other got wind of the affair, and slipped a strong detachment out of Vera Cruz in time to intercept us. We met them on the other side of this very hill, where a road strikes off towards Medellin.”

“Well! and what followed?”

“Why, the battle lasted nearly an hour; and, after having lost half a score of their best men, the valiant lancers rode back to Vera Cruz quicker than they came out of it.”

“And the smugglers?”

“Carried the goods safe on board. Three of them – poor fellows! – are lying not far off, and I came near sharing their luck. I have a lance-hole through my thigh, here, that pains me at this very moment.”