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CHAPTER XV
FRAY AMBROSIO

The monk remained for a long time in the room of the mesón, taking down the names of the adventurers he wished to enrol in his band. It was late when he left it to return to the Hacienda de la Noria; but he was satisfied with his night's work, and internally rejoiced at the rich collection of bandits of the purest water he had recruited.

The monks form a privileged caste in Mexico: they can go at all hours of the night wherever they please without fearing the numerous "gentlemen of the road," scattered about the highways. Their gown inspires a respect which guarantees them from any insult, and preserves them better than anything from unpleasant rencontres. Besides, Fray Ambrosio, as the reader has doubtless already perceived, was not the man to neglect indispensable precautions in a country where, out of ten persons you meet on your road, you may boldly assert that nine are rogues, the tenth alone offering any doubts. The worthy chaplain carried under his gown a pair of double-barrelled pistols, and in his right sleeve he concealed a long navaja, sharp as a razor, and pointed as a needle.

Not troubling himself about the solitude that reigned around him, the monk mounted his mule and proceeded quietly to the hacienda. It was about eleven o'clock.

A few words about Fray Ambrosio, while he is peacefully ambling along the narrow path which will lead him in two hours to his destination, will show all the perversity of the man who is destined to play an unfortunately too important part in the course of our narrative.

One day a gambusino, or gold seeker, who had disappeared for two years, no one knowing what had become of him, and who was supposed to be dead long ago, assassinated in the desert by the Indians, suddenly reappeared at the Paso del Norte. This man, Joaquin by name, was brother to Andrés Garote, an adventurer of the worst stamp, who had at least a dozen cuchilladas (knife stabs) on his conscience, whom everybody feared, but who, through the terror he inspired, enjoyed at the Paso, in spite of his well-avouched crimes, a reputation and species of impunity which he abused whenever the opportunity offered.

The two brothers began frequenting together the mesones and ventas of the village, drinking from morn till night, and paying either in gold dust enclosed in stout quills, or in lumps of native gold. The rumour soon spread at Paso that Joaquin had discovered a rich placer, and that his expenses were paid with the specimens he had brought back. The gambusino replied neither yes nor no to the several insinuations which his friends, or rather his boon companions, attempted on him. He twinkled his eyes, smiled mysteriously, and if it were observed that, at the rate he was living at, he would soon be ruined, he shrugged his shoulders, saying: —

"When I have none left I know where to find others."

And he continued to enjoy his fill of all the pleasures which a wretched hole like Paso can furnish.

Fray Ambrosio had heard speak, like everyone else, of the gambusino's asserted discovery; and his plan was at once formed to become master of this man's secret, and rob him of his discovery, were that possible.

The same evening Joaquin and his brother Andrés were drinking, according to their wont, in a mesón, surrounded by a crowd of scamps like themselves. Fray Ambrosio, seated at a table with his hands hidden in the sleeves of his gown, and hanging head, appeared plunged in serious reflections, although he followed with a cunning eye the various movements of the drinkers, and not one of their gestures escaped him.

Suddenly a man entered, with his hand on his hip, and throwing in the face of the first person he passed the cigarette he was smoking. He planted himself in front of Joaquin, to whom he said nothing, but began looking at him impudently, shrugging his shoulders, and laughing ironically at all the gambusino said. Joaquin was not patient, he saw at the first glance that this person wished to pick a quarrel with him; and as he was brave, and feared nobody, man or devil, he walked boldly up to him, and looking at him fixedly in his turn, he said to him, as he thrust his face in his:

"Do you seek a quarrel, Tomaso?"

"Why not?" the latter said impudently, as he set his glass on the table.

"I am your man. We will fight how you please."

"Bah!" Tomaso said carelessly, "let us do things properly, and fight with the whole blade."

"Be it so."

The combats which take place between the adventurers are truly like those of wild beasts. These coarse men, with their cruel instincts, like fighting beyond all else, for the smell of blood intoxicates them. The announcement of this duel caused a thrill of pleasure to run through the ranks of the leperos and bandits who pressed round the two men. The fun was perfect: one of the adversaries would doubtless fall – perhaps both – and blood flow in streams. Cries and yells of delight were raised by the spectators.

The duel with knives is the only one that exists in Mexico, and is solely left to the leperos and people of the lowest classes. This duel has its rules, which cannot be broken under any pretext. The knives usually employed, have blades from fourteen to sixteen inches in length, and the duelists fight according to the gravity of the insult, with one, two, three, six inches, or the entire blade. The inches are carefully measured and the hand clutches the knife at the marked spot.

This time it was a duel with the whole blade, the most terrible of all. With extraordinary politeness and coolness the landlord had a large ring formed in the middle of the room, where the two adversaries stationed themselves, about six paces from each other at the most.

A deep silence hung over the room, a moment previously so full of life and disturbance; every one anxiously awaited the dénouement of the terrible drama that was preparing. Fray Ambrosio alone had not quitted his seat or made a sign.

The two men rolled their zarapés round their left arm, planted themselves firmly on their outstretched legs, bent their bodies slightly forward and gently placing the point of the knife blade on the arm rounded in front of the chest, they waited, fixed on each other flashing glances. A few seconds elapsed, during which the adversaries remained perfectly motionless: all hearts were contracted, all bosoms heaving.

Worthy of Callot's pencil was the scene offered by these men, with their weather-stained faces and harsh features, and their clothes in rags, forming a circle round two combatants ready to kill each other in this mean room, slightly illumined by a smoky lamp, which flashed upon the blue blades of the knives, and in the shadow, almost disappearing in his black gown, the monk, with his implacable glance and mocking smile, who, like a tiger thirsting for blood, awaited the hour to pounce on his prey.

Suddenly, by a spontaneous movement rapid as lightning, the adversaries rushed on each other, uttering a yell of fury. The blades flashed, there was a clashing of steel, and both fell back again. Joaquin and Tomaso had both dealt the same stroke, called, in the slang of the country, the "blow of the brave man." Each had his face slashed from top to bottom with a gaping wound.

The spectators frenziedly applauded this magnificent opening scene: the jaguars had scented blood, and were mad.

"What a glorious fight!" they exclaimed with admiration.

In the meanwhile the two combatants, rendered hideous by the blood that streamed from their wounds and stained their faces, were again watching for the moment to leap on one another. Suddenly they broke ground; but this time it was no skirmish, but the real fight, atrocious and merciless. The two men seized each other round the waist, and entwined like serpents, they twisted about, trying to stab each other, and exciting themselves to the struggle by cries of rage and triumph. The enthusiasm of the spectators was at its height: they laughed, clapped hands, and uttered inarticulate howls as they urged the fighters not to loose their hold.

At length the enemies rolled on the ground still enclasped. For some seconds the combat continued on the ground, and it was impossible to distinguish who was the conqueror. All at once one of them, who no longer had a human form, and whose body was as red as an Indian's, bounded to his feet brandishing his knife. It was Joaquin.

His brother rushed toward him to congratulate him on his victory, but all at once the gambusino tottered and fainted. Tomaso did not rise again: he remained motionless, stretched out on the uneven floor of the mesón. He was stark dead.

This scene had been so rapid, its conclusion so unforeseen, that, in spite of themselves, the spectators had remained dumb, and as if struck with stupor. Suddenly the priest, whom all had forgotten, rose and walked into the centre of the room, looking round with a glance that caused all to let their eyes fall.

"Retire, all of you," he said in a gloomy voice, "now that you have allowed this deed worthy of savages to be accomplished. The priest must offer his ministry, and get back from Satan, if there be still time, the soul of this Christian who is about to die. Begone!"

The adventurers hung their heads, and in a few moments the priest was left alone with the two men, one of whom was dead, the other at the last gasp. No one could say what occurred in that room; but when the priest left it, a quarter of an hour later, his eyes flashed wildly. Joaquin had given his parting sigh. On opening the door to go out Fray Ambrosio jostled against a man, who drew back sharply to make room for him. It was Andrés Garote. What was he doing with his eye at the keyhole while the monk was shriving his brother?

The adventurer told no one what he had seen during this last quarter of an hour, nor did the monk notice in the shade the man he had almost thrown down.

Such was the way in which Fray Ambrosio became master of the gambusino's secret, and how he alone knew at present the spot where the placer was.

CHAPTER XVI
TWO VARIETIES OF VILLAINS

Now that the reader is well informed touching Fray Ambrosio, we will follow him on his road home from the mesón. The night was calm, silent and serene. Not a sound troubled the silence, save the trot of the mule over the pebbles on the road, or at times, in the distance, the snapping bark of the coyotes chasing in a pack, according to their wont, some straggling hind.

Fray Ambrosio ambled gently on, while reflecting on the events of the evening, and calculating mentally the probable profits of the expedition he meditated. He had left far behind him the last houses of the village, and was advancing cautiously along a narrow path that wound through an immense sugar cane field. Already the shadow of the tall hacienda walls stood out blackly in the horizon. He expected to reach it within twenty minutes, when suddenly his mule, which had hitherto gone so quietly, pricked up its ears, raised its head, and stopped short.

Roughly aroused from his meditations by this unexpected halt, the monk looked about for some obstacle that might impede his progress. About ten paces from him a man was standing right in the middle of the path. Fray Ambrosio was a man not easily to be frightened: besides, he was well armed. He drew out one of the pistols hidden under his gown, cocked it, and prepared to cross-question the person who so resolutely barred his way. But the latter, at the sharp sound of the setting hammer, thought it prudent to make himself known, and not await the consequences of an address nearly always stormy under similar circumstances.

"Halloh!" he shouted in a loud voice, "Return your pistol to your belt, Fray Ambrosio; I only want to talk with you."

"Diavolo!" the monk said, "the hour and moment are singularly chosen for a friendly conversation, my good fellow."

"Time belongs to nobody," the stranger answered sententiously. "I am obliged to choose that which I have at my disposal."

"That is true," the monk said as he quietly uncocked his pistol, though not returning it to his belt. "Who the deuce are you, and why are you so anxious to speak with me? Do you want to confess?

"Have you not recognised me yet, Fray Ambrosio? Must I tell you my name that you may know with whom you have to deal?"

"Needless, my good sir, needless; but how the deuce is it, Red Cedar, that I meet you here! What can you have so pressing to communicate to me?"

"You shall know if you will stop for a few moments and dismount."

"The deuce take you with your whims! Cannot you tell me that as well tomorrow! Night is getting on, my home is still some distance off and I am literally worn out."

"Bah! you will sleep capitally by the side of a ditch, where you could not be more comfortable. Besides, what I have to say to you does not admit of delay."

"You wish to make a proposal to me, then?"

"Yes."

"What about, if you please?"

"About the affair we discussed this evening at the Paso."

"Why, I fancied we had settled all that, and you accepted my offer."

"Not yet, not yet, my master. That will depend on the conversation we are about to have, so you had better dismount and sit down quietly by my side; for if you don't do it, it will come to nothing."

"The deuce take people that change their minds every minute, and on whom one cannot reckon more than on an old surplice!" the monk growled with an air of annoyance, while, for all that, getting off his mule, which he fastened to a shrub.

The squatter did not seem to remark the chaplain's ill temper, and let him sit down by his side without uttering a syllable.

"Here I am," the monk went on, so soon as he was seated. "I really do not know, Red Cedar, why I yield so easily to all your whims."

"Because you suspect that your interest depends on it: were it not for that, you would not do so."

"Why talk thus in the open country, instead of going to your house, where we should be much more comfortable?"

Red Cedar shook his head in denial.

"No," he said; "the open is better for what we have to talk about. Here we need not fear listeners at out doors."

"That is true. Well, go on; I am listening."

"Hum! You insist upon my commanding the expedition you project?"

"Of course. I have known you a long time. I am aware that you are a sure man, perfectly versed in Indian signs; for, if I am not mistaken, the greater part of your life has been spent among them."

"Do not speak about what I have done? The question now concerns you, and not me."

"How so?"

"Good, good! Let me speak. You need me, so it is to my interest to make you pay as dearly as I can for me."

"Eh?" the monk muttered, as he made a grimace. "I am not rich, gossip, as you are aware."

"Yes, yes; I know that, so soon as you have a few piastres or ounces, the monte table strips you of them immediately."

"Hang it! I have always been unlucky at play."

"For that reason I do not intend asking you for money."

"Very good. If you have no designs on my purse we can easily come to an understanding. You may speak boldly."

"I hope that we shall easily understand one another, the mere so as the service I expect from you is almost a mere nothing."

"Come to the point, Red Cedar: with your deuced way of twining your phrases together in the Indian way, you never make an end of it."

"You know that I have a deadly hatred against Don Miguel Zarate?"

"I have heard some say about it. Did he not lodge his knife somewhere in your chest?"

"Yes, and the blow was so rude that I all but died of it; but, thanks to the devil, I am on my legs again, after remaining three weeks on my back like a cast sheep. I want my revenge."

"I can't help saying you are right: in your place, may Satan twist my neck if I would not do the same!"

"For that I count on your help."

"Hum! that is a delicate affair. I have no cause of complaint against Don Miguel – on the contrary: besides, I do not see how I can serve you."

"Oh! very easily."

"You believe so?"

"You shall see."

"Go on, then; I am listening."

"Don Miguel has a daughter?"

"Doña Clara."

"I mean to carry her off."

"Deuce take the mad ideas that pass through your brain-pan, gossip! How would you have me help you in carrying off the daughter of Don Miguel, to whom I owe so many obligations? No, I cannot do that, indeed."

"You must, though."

"I will not, I tell you."

"Measure your words well, Fray Ambrosio, for this conversation is serious. Before refusing so peremptorily to give me the help I ask, reflect well."

"I have reflected well, Red Cedar, and never will I consent to help you in carrying off the daughter of my benefactor. Say what you like, nothing will ever change my resolution on that head, for it is inflexible."

"Perhaps."

"Oh! Whatever may happen, I swear that nothing will make me alter."

"Swear not, Fray Ambrosio, for you will be a perjurer."

"Ta, ta, ta! You are mad, my good fellow. Don't let us waste our time. If you have nothing else to say to me, I will leave you, though I take such pleasure in your society."

"You have become scrupulous all of a sudden, my master."

"There is a beginning to everything, compadre; so let us say no more, but good-bye."

And the monk rose.

"You are really going?"

"Caray! Do you fancy I mean to sleep here?"

"Very good. You understand that you need not count on me for your expedition?"

"I am sorry for it; but I will try to find someone to take your place."

"Thank you."

The two men were standing, and the monk had put his foot in the stirrup. Red Cedar also appeared ready to make a start. At the moment of separation a sudden idea seemed to occur to the squatter.

"By the way," he said carelessly, "be kind enough to give me some information I require."

"What is it now?" the monk asked.

"Oh! a mere trifle," the squatter remarked indifferently. "It concerns a certain Don Pedro de Tudela, whom I think you formerly knew."

"Eh!?" the monk exclaimed, as he turned, with his leg still in the air.

"Come, come, Fray Ambrosio," Red Cedar continued in a jeering voice, "let us have a little more talk together. I will tell you, if you like, a very remarkable story about this Don Pedro, with whom you were acquainted."

The monk was livid; a nervous tremor agitated all his limbs; he let loose his mule's bridle, and followed the squatter mechanically, who seated himself tranquilly on the ground, making him a sign to follow his example. The monk fell, suppressing a sigh, and wiping away the drops of cold perspiration that beaded on his forehead.

"Eh, eh!" the squatter continued at the end of a moment, "we must allow that Don Pedro was a charming gentleman – a little wild, perhaps; but what would you have? He was young. I remember meeting him at Albany a long time ago – some sixteen or seventeen years ago – how old one gets! – at the house of one – wait awhile, the name has slipped my memory – could you not help me to it, Fray Ambrosio?"

"I do not know what you mean," the monk said in a hollow voice.

The man was in a state that would have produced pity; the veins in his forehead were swollen ready to burst; he was choking; his right hand clutched the hilt of his dagger; and he bent on the squatter a glance full of deadly hatred. The latter seemed to see nothing of all this.

"I have it!" he continued. "The man's name was Walter Brunnel, a very worthy gentleman."

"Demon!" the monk howled in a gasping voice, "I know not who made you master of that horrible secret, but you shall die."

And he rushed upon him, dagger in hand.

Red Cedar had known Fray Ambrosio a long time, and was on his guard. By a rapid movement he checked his arm, twisted it, and seized the dagger, which he threw a long distance off.

"Enough," he said in a harsh voice. "We understand one another, my master. Do not play that game with me, for you will be sick of it, I warn you."

The monk fell back on his seat, without the strength to make a sign or utter a syllable. The squatter regarded him for a moment with mingled pity and contempt and shrugged his shoulders.

"For sixteen years I have held that secret," he said, "and it has never passed my lips. I will continue to keep silence on one condition."

"What is it?"

"I want you to help me in carrying off the hacendero's daughter."

"I will do it."

"Mind, I expect honest assistance; so do not attempt any treachery."

"I will help you, I tell you."

"Good! I count on your word. Besides you may be easy, master; I will watch you."

"Enough of threats. What is to be done?"

"When do we start for Apacheria?"

"You are coming, then?"

"Of course."

A sinister smile played round the monk's pale lips.

"We shall start in a week," he said.

"Good! On the day of the start you will hand over the girl to me, one hour before our departure."

"What shall I do to compel her to follow me?"

"That is not my business."

"Still – "

"I insist."

"Be it so," the monk said with an effort. "I will do it; but remember, demon, if I ever hold you in my hands, as I am this day in yours, I shall be pitiless and make you pay for all I suffer at this moment."

"You will be right to do so – it is your due; still I doubt whether you will ever be able to reach me."

"Perhaps."

"Live and learn. In the meanwhile I am your master, and I reckon on your obedience."

"I will obey."

"That is settled. Now, one thing more; how many men have you enlisted this evening?"

"About twenty."

"That's not many; but, with the sixty I shall supply, we shall have a very decent band to hold the Indians in check."

"May Heaven grant it!"

"Don't be alarmed, my master," the squatter said, re-assuming the friendly tone which he employed at the outset of the conversation; "I pledge myself, to lead you straight to your placer. I have not lived ten years with the Indians not to be up to all their tricks."

"Of course," the monk answered as he rose, "You know, Red Cedar, what was agreed upon; the placer will be shared between us. It is, therefore, to your interest to enable us to reach it without obstacle."

"We shall reach it. Now that we have nothing more to say to each other and have agreed on all points – for we have done so, I think?" he said significantly.

"Yes, all."

"We can part, and go each home. No matter, my master! I told you that I should succeed in making you alter your mind. Look you, Fray Ambrosio," he added in impudent tone, which made the monk turn pale with rage; "people need only to understand one another to do anything."

He rose, threw his rifle over his shoulder, and turning away sharply, went off with lengthened strides. The monk remained for a moment as if stunned by what had happened. Suddenly he thrust his hand under his gown, seized a pistol, and aimed at the squatter. But ere he had time to pull the trigger his enemy disappeared round a turning, uttering a formidable burst of laughter, which the mocking echo bore to his ear, and revealed to him all the immensity of his impotence.

"Oh!" he muttered as he got in the saddle, "How did this fiend discover the secret which I believed no one knew?"

And he went off gloomy and thoughtful. Half an hour later he reached the Hacienda de la Noria, when the gate was opened for him by a trusty peon, for everybody was asleep. It was past midnight.