Chapter Sixty Five.
Two Scoundrels in Council
Simultaneous with the scene in the square marquee a dialogue is taking place within the conical tent, the speakers being Uraga and Roblez.
The colonel is reclining on a bearskin, spread over the thick sward of grass, which forms a soft couch underneath. The lieutenant sits on a camp-stool beside.
Both are smoking; while from a canteen and two cups, resting upon the top of a bullock trunk, comes a perfume which tells they have also been indulging in a drink.
Uraga is thoughtful and silent; Roblez patiently waiting for him to speak. The adjutant has but late entered the tent and delivered his report about the pitching of the camp, the arrangements of which he has been superintending.
“You’ve stationed a look-out as I directed?” the Colonel inquires, after a long silence.
“I have.”
“I hope you’ve placed him so that he can command a good view of the valley below?”
“He’s on a spur of the cliff, and can see full five miles down stream. May I ask, colonel, whom we may expect to come that way? Not pursuers, I take it?”
Uraga does not make immediate reply. There is evidently something in his thoughts he hesitates to communicate to his subordinate. The answer he at length vouchsafes is evasive.
“Whom may we expect? You forget those fellows left behind on the Llano. The corporal and two men, whether they’ve found the Indian or not, will make all haste after us. Fear of falling in with some party of Apaches will stimulate their speed. I wonder why they haven’t got up long ago. Something strange about that.”
“No doubt the storm has detained them.”
“Do you think it’s been that, ayadante?”
“I can’t think of anything else, colonel. Anyhow, they wouldn’t be likely to come here, but go on straight to Albuquerque. The corporal is a skilled rastrero, and, reaching the place where the troop separated, he’d be pretty sure to follow the trail of the larger party. All the more from his knowing it the safer one, so far as savages are concerned.”
“I hope he has done so. We don’t want him here.”
Saying this, Uraga resumes his thoughtful attitude and silently puffs away at his cigar, apparently watching the smoke as it curls up and spreads against the canvas.
Roblez, who appeared anxious about something, after a time again essays speech. He puts the interrogatory, —
“How long are we to remain here?”
“That will depend on – ”
Uraga does not complete the response – at least not till after taking several whiffs at his weed.
“On what?” asks the impatient subordinate.
“Many matters – circumstances, events, coincidences.”
“May I know what they are. You promised to tell me, colonel.”
“I did – in time. It has not yet come. One thing I may now make known. When we leave this camping-place we shall take no prisoners along with us.”
“You intend setting them free?” The question is asked, not with any idea that this is Uraga’s design, but to draw out the explanation.
“Free of all cares in this world, whatever may be their troubles in the next.”
“They are to die, then?”
“They are to die.”
“You mean only the men – Don Valerian and the doctor?”
“What a ruffian you are, Roblez! By your question you must take me for the same – a sanguinary savage. I’m not so bloodthirsty as to think of killing women, much less one so sweet as the Senorita Miranda. Men don’t desire the deaths of their own wives – at least, not till after the honeymoon. The Dona Adela is to be mine – shall, and must!”
“I am aware that is your wish, and as things stand you have a fair chance of obtaining it. You can have her without spilling her brother’s blood. Excuse me, colonel, but I can see no reason why he should not be let live, at least till we take him to Santa Fé, There a prison will hold him safe, and a court-martial can be called, which, with the spirit just now abroad, will condemn him in one day, and execute him on the morning of the next. That would keep you clear from all suspicion of over-haste, which may attach to you if you take the thing into your own hands here.”
“Bah! you talk like a child, teniente! The security of a prison in New Mexico, or the chances of a prisoner being condemned, far less executed, are things merely imaginary. All the more now that there’s some probability of a change in the political sky. Clouds have shown themselves on the horizon at the capital – talk that our good friend Gameleg is going out again. Before the storm comes I for one intend making myself secure. As the husband of Adela Miranda, owning all that belongs to her brother, and which will be hers after his death, I shall care but little who presides in the Halls of the Moctezumas. Priest-party or patriots, ’twill be all the same to me.”
“Why not become her husband and let the brother live?”
“Why? Because that cannot be.”
“I don’t see any reason against it. Both are in your power. You may easily make terms.”
Uraga, impressed with the observation, remains for a while silent, considering. To aid reflection he smokes harder than ever.
Resuming speech, he asks, —
“How do you counsel?”
“As I’ve said, colonel. Make terms with Miranda. Knowing his life to be in your hands, he will listen to reason. Extract from him a promise – an oath, if need be – that he will consent to his sister becoming your wife; at the same time settling a portion of his property on the newly married pair. It’s big enough to afford all of you a handsome income. That’s what I would do.”
“He might promise you here. What security against breaking his word when we get to Albuquerque?”
“No need waiting for Albuquerque to give him the chance. You seem to forget that there are churches between, and priests not over-scrupulous. For instance, the cure of Anton Chico, and his reverence who saves souls in the pueblita of La Mora. Either one will make man and wife of you and the Senorita Adela without asking question beyond whether you can produce coin sufficient to pay the marriage fees. Disbursing freely, you may ensure the ceremonial in spite of all protest, if any should arise. There can be none.”
Uraga lights a fresh cigar, and continues smoking, reflecting. The counsel of his subaltern has made an impression on him – put the thing in a new light. After all, what harm in letting Miranda live? Enough of revenge compelling him to consent that his sister shall be the wife of one she has scornfully rejected. If he refuse – if both do so – what then?
The interrogatory is addressed to Roblez.
“Your position,” answers the adjutant, “will be no worse than now. You can still carry out the design you’ve hinted at without doing me the honour to entrust it to me. Certainly no harm can arise from trying my plan first. In ten minutes you may ascertain the result.”
“I shall try it,” exclaims Uraga, springing to his feet and facing towards the entrance of the tent. “You’re right, Roblez. It’s a second string to the bow I had a thought about. If it snap, let it. But if it do, before long – aye, before to-morrow’s sun shines into our camp – the proud beauty may find herself brotherless, her sole chance of protection being the arms of Gil Uraga.”
Saying this, he pitches away the stump of his cigar, and strides forth from the tent, determined to extract from Adela Miranda a promise of betrothal, or in lieu of it decree her brother’s death.
Chapter Sixty Six.
A Brother Sorely Tempted
After stepping forth from the tent Uraga pauses to reflect. The course counselled by Roblez seems reasonable enough. If he can but force the girl’s consent, it will not be difficult to get it sealed. There are priests in the frontier pueblitas who will be obedient to a power superior to the Church – even in Mexico, that Paradise of padres. Gold will outweigh any scruples about the performance of the marriage ceremony, however suspicion! the circumstances under which the intending bride and bridegroom may prevent themselves at the altar. The lancer colonel is well aware of this.
But there are other points to be considered before he can proceed farther with the affair. His escort must not know too much. There are ten of them, all thorough cut-throats, and, as such, having a fellow-feeling for their commanding officer. Not one of them but has committed crime, and more than one stained his soul with murder. Nothing strange for Mexican soldiers under the regime of Santa Anna. Not rare even among their officers.
On parting with the main body Uraga selected his escort with an eye to sinister contingencies. They are the sort to assist in any deed of blood. If ordered to shoot or hang the captives they would obey with the eagerness of bloodhounds let loose from the leash, rather relishing it as cruel sport.
For all, he does not desire to entrust them with the secret of his present scheme.
They must not overhear the conversation which he intends holding with his captives; and to prevent this a plan easily suggests itself.
“Holla!” he hails a trooper with chevroned sleeves, in authority over the others. “Step this way, sergente.”
The sergeant advances, and saluting, awaits further speech from the colonel.
“Order boots and saddles!” directs the latter.
The order is issued; and the soldiers soon stand by their stirrups ready to mount, wondering what duty they are so unexpectedly to be sent upon.
“To horse!” commands the Colonel, vicariously through his non-commissioned officer. “Ride up the creek, and find if there is a pass leading out above. Take all the men with you; only leave Galvez to keep guard over the prisoners.”
The sergeant, having received these instructions, once more salutes. Then, returning to the group of lancers, at some distance off, gives the word “Mount!” The troopers, vaulting into their saddles, ride away from the ground, Galvez alone staying behind, who, being a “familiar” with his colonel, and more than once his participator in crimes of deepest dye, can be trusted to overhear anything.
The movement has not escaped the observation of the two men lying tied under the tree. They cannot divine its meaning, but neither do they augur well of it. Still worse, when Uraga, calling to Galvez to come to him, mutters some words in his ear.
Their apprehensions are increased when the sentry returns to them, and, unfastening the cord from the doctor’s ankles, raises him upon his feet, as if to remove him from the spot.
On being asked what it is for, Galvez does not condescend to give an answer, except to say in a gruff voice that he has orders to separate them.
Taking hold of the doctor’s arm, he conducts him to a distance of several hundred yards, and, once more laying him along the ground, stands over him as before in the attitude of a sentry. The action is suspicious, awe-inspiring – not more to Don Prospero than Miranda himself.
The latter is not left long to meditate upon it. Almost instantly he sees the place of his friend occupied by his enemy. Gil Uraga stands beside him.
There is an interval of silence, with only an interchange of glances; Don Valerian’s defiant, Uraga’s triumphant. But the expression of triumph on the part of the latter appears held in check, as if to wait some development that may either heighten or curb its display.
Uraga breaks silence – the first speech vouchsafed to his former commanding officer since making him a prisoner.
“Señor Miranda,” he says, “you will no doubt be wondering why I have ordered your fellow-captive to be taken apart from you. It will be explained by my saying that I have words for you I don’t wish overheard by anyone – not even by your dear friend, Don Prospero.”
“What words, Gil Uraga?”
“A proposal I have to make.”
Miranda remains silent, awaiting it.
“Let me first make known,” continues the ruffian, “though doubtless you know it already, that your life is in my power. If I put a pistol to your head and blow out your brains there will be no calling me to account. If there was any danger of that, I could avoid it by giving you the benefit of a court-martial. Your life is forfeit to the state; and our military laws, as you are aware, can be stretched just now sufficiently to meet your case.”
“I am aware of it,” rejoins Miranda, his patriotic spirit roused by the reflection; “I know the despotism that now rules my unfortunate country. It can do anything, without respect for either laws or constitution.”
“Just so,” assents Uraga; “and for this reason I approach you with my proposal.”
“Speak it, then. Proceed, sir, and don’t multiply words. You need not fear of their effect. I am your prisoner, and powerless.”
“Since you command me to avoid circumlocution, I shall obey you to the letter. My proposal is that, in exchange for your life – which I have the power to take, as also to save – you will give me your sister.”
Miranda writhes till the cords fastening his wrists almost cut through the skin. Withal, he is silent; his passion too intense to permit of speech.
“Don’t mistake me, Don Valerian Miranda,” pursues his tormentor, in a tone intended to be soothing. “When I ask you to give me your sister I mean it in an honourable sense. I wish her for my wife; and to save your life she will consent to become so, if you only use your influence to that end. She will not be a faithful sister if she do not. I need not tell you that I love her; you know that already. Accept the conditions I offer, and all will be well. I can even promise you the clemency of the State; for my influence in high places is somewhat different from what it was when you knew me as your subordinate. It will enable me to obtain free pardon for you.”
Miranda still remains silent – long enough to rouse the impatience of him who dictates, and tempt the alternative threat already shaping itself on his tongue.
“Refuse,” he continues, his brow suddenly clouding, while a light of sinister significance flashes from his eyes, “Refuse me, and you see not another sun. By that now shining you may take your last look of the earth; for this night will certainly be your last on it alive. Observe those vultures on the cliff! They are whetting their beaks, as if they expected a banquet. They shall have one, on your body, if you reject the terms I’ve offered. Accept them, Don Valerian Miranda; or before to-morrow’s sun reaches meridian the birds will be feeding upon your flesh, and the wild beasts quarrelling over your bones. Answer me, and without prevarication. I demand plain speech, yes or no.”
“No!” is the monosyllable shouted, almost shrieked, by him so menaced. “No!” he repeats; “never shall I consent to that. I am in your power, Gil Uraga. Put your pistol to my head, blow out my brains, as you say you can do with impunity. Kill me any way you wish, even torture. It could not be more painful than to see you the husband of my sister, either by my consent or her own. You cannot force mine upon such disgraceful conditions, nor yet gain her’s. My noble Adela! She would rather see me die, and die along with me.”
“Ha! ha!” responded Uraga, in a peal of mocking laughter, mingled with a whine of chagrin, “we shall see about that. Perhaps the senorita may not treat my offer quite so slightingly as yourself. Women are not so superbly stupid. They have a keener comprehension of their own interests. Your sister may better appreciate the honour I am intending her. If not, Heaven help her and you! She will soon be without a brother. Adios, Don Valerian! I go to pour speech into softer ears. For your own sake, hope – pray – that my proposal may be more favourably received.”
Saying this, Uraga turns upon his heel and abruptly walks away, leaving behind his captive with hands tied and heart in a tumult of anguished emotion.
Chapter Sixty Seven.
A Sister Sorely Tried
The marquee occupied by Adela Miranda and her maid is not visible from the spot where her brother lies bound. The other tent is between, with some shrubbery further concealing it.
But from the tenour of his last speech, Don Valerian knows that Uraga has gone thither, as also his object.
Chagrined by the denial he has received from the brother, roused to recklessness, he resolves on having an answer from the sister, point-blank, upon the instant.
With slight ceremony he enters her tent. Once inside, he mutters a request, more like a command, for Conchita to withdraw. He does this with as much grace as the excited state of his feelings permits, excusing himself on the plea that he wishes a word with the senorita – one he is sure she would not wish to be heard by other ears than her own.
Aroused from a despondent attitude, the young lady looks up, her large round eyes expressing surprise, anger, apprehension, awe. The mestiza glances towards her mistress for instructions. The latter hesitates to give them. Only for an instant. It can serve no purpose to gainsay the wishes of one who has full power to enforce them, and whose demeanour shows him determined on doing so.
“You can go, Conchita,” says her mistress; “I will call you when you are wanted.”
The girl moves off with evident reluctance, but stops not far from the tent.
“Now, Don Gil Uraga,” demands the lady, on being left alone with the intruder, “what have you to say to me that should not be overheard?”
“Come, senorita! I pray you will not commence so brusquely. I approach you as a friend, though for some time I may have appeared in the character of an enemy. I hope, however, you’ll give me credit for good intentions. I’m sure you will when you know how much I’m distressed by the position I’m placed in. It grieves me that my instructions compel such harsh measures towards my two prisoners: but, in truth, I can say no discretion has been left me. I act under an order from headquarters.”
“Señor,” she rejoins, casting upon him a look of scornful incredulity, “you have said all this before. I suppose you had something else to speak of.”
“And so I have, senorita. Something of a nature so unpleasant I hesitate to tell it, fearing it may sadly shock you.”
“You need not. After what has passed I am not likely to be nervous.”
Despite her natural courage, and an effort to appear calm, she trembles, as also her voice. There is an expression on the face of the man that bodes sinister risings – some terrible disclosure.
The suspense is too painful to be borne; and in a tone more firm and defiant she demands the promised communication.
“Dona Adela Miranda,” he rejoins, speaking in a grave, measured voice, like a doctor delivering a prognosis of death, “it has been my duty to make your brother a prisoner – a painful one, as I have said. But, alas! the part I’ve already performed is nothing compared with that now required of me. You say you are prepared for a shock. What I’m going to say will cause you one.”
She no longer attempts to conceal alarm. It is now discernible in her large, wondering eyes.
“Say it!”
The words drop mechanically from her lips, drawn forth by the intensity of her apprehension.
“You are soon to be without a brother!”
“What mean you, señor?”
“Don Valerian dies within the hour.”
“You are jesting, sir. My brother has not been sick? He is not wounded? Why should he die?”
She speaks hurriedly, and with an incredulous stare at Uraga; while at the same time her heaving, palpitating bosom shows she too truly believes what he said.
“Don Valerian is not sick,” continues the unfeeling wretch, “nor yet has he received any wound. For all this, in less than an hour he must die. It is decreed.”
“Madre de Dios! You are mocking me. His death decreed! By whom?”
“Not by me, I assure you. The military authorities of the country have been his judges, and condemned him long ago, as also Don Prospero. It only needed their capture to have the sentence carried out. This disagreeable duty has been entrusted to me. My orders at starting were to have both shot on the instant of making them captives. For your sake, senorita, I’ve so far disobeyed the rigorous command – an act which may cost me my commission. Yes, Dona Adela, for your sake.”
The tale is preposterous, and might seem to her who hears it a lie, but for her knowledge of many similar occurrences in the history of her native land, “Cosas de Mexico.” Besides, her own and her brother’s experience render it but too probable.
“Dios de mi alma!” she cries out in the anguish of conviction, “can this be true?”
“It is true.”
“Colonel Uraga, you will not carry out this cruel sentence! It is not an execution – it is an assassination! You will not stain your soul with murder?”
“I must obey orders.”
“My poor brother! Have mercy! You can save him?”
“I can.”
“You will? You will?”
“I will!”
The emphasis with which these two words are pronounced brings a flush of gratefulness over her face, and she makes a forward movement as if to thank him by a pressure of the hand. She might have given it but for the cast upon his features, telling his consent not yet obtained, nor his speech finished. There is more to come – two other words. They are —
“Upon conditions!”
They check her bursting gratitude. Conditions! She knows not what they may be. But she knows the character of Gil Uraga, and can predict they will be hard.
“Name them!” she demands. “If it be money, I’m ready to give it. Though my brother’s property is taken from him, as we’ve heard, not so mine. I have wealth – houses, lands. Take all, but save Valerian’s life.”
“You can save it without expending a single claco; only by giving a grace.”
“What mean you, señor?”
“To explain my meaning I’ll repeat what I’ve said. Your brother’s head is forfeit. It can be saved by a hand.”
“Still I do not understand you. A hand?”
“Yes, your hand.”
“How?”
“Grasped in mine – united with it in holy wedlock. That is all I ask.”
She starts as if a serpent had stung her, for she now comprehends all.
“All I ask,” he continues in a strain of fervid passion, “I who love you with my whole soul; who have loved you for long hopeless years – aye, senorita, ever since you were a schoolgirl; myself a rough, wild youth, the son of a ranchero, who dared only gaze at you from a distance. I am a peasant no longer, but one who has wealth; upon whom the State has bestowed power to command; made me worthy to choose a wife from among the proudest in our land – even to wed with the Dona Adela Miranda, who beholds him at her feet!”
While speaking he has knelt before her, and remains upon his knees awaiting her response.
She makes none. She stands as if petrified, deprived of the power of speech.
Her silence gives him hope.
“Dona Adela,” he continues in an appealing tone, as if to strengthen the chances of an affirmative answer, “I will do everything to make you happy – everything a husband can. And remember your brother’s life! I am risking my own to save it. I have just spoken to him on the subject. He does not object; on the contrary, has given consent to you being mine.”
“You say so?” she inquires, with a look of incredulity. “I do not believe it – will not, without hearing it from his own lips.”
While speaking, she springs past the kneeling suppliant, and, before he can get upon his legs or stretch forth a hand to detain her, she has glided out of the tent, and makes for the place where she supposes the prisoners to be kept.
Starting to his feet, Uraga rushes after. His intent is to overtake and bring her back, even if he have to carry her.
He is too late. Before he can come up with her she has reached the spot where her brother lies bound, and kneels beside him with arms embracing, her lips pressing his brow, his cheeks moistened by her tears.