Kitabı oku: «The Rifle Rangers», sayfa 13

Chapter Thirty Three.
A Drink à la Cheval

The guerilleros now halted and dismounted. We were left in our saddles. Our mules were picketed upon long lazos, and commenced browsing. They carried us under the thorny branches of the wild locust. The maguey, with its bill-shaped claws, had torn our uniform overalls to shreds. Our limbs were lacerated, and the cactus had lodged its poisoned prickles in our knees. But these were nothing to the pain of being compelled to keep our saddles, or rather saddle-trees – for we were upon the naked wood. Our hips ached intensely, and our limbs smarted under the chafing thong.

There was a crackling of fires around us. Our captors were cooking their breakfasts, and chattering gaily over their chocolate. Neither food nor drink was offered to us, although we were both thirsty and hungry. We were kept in this place for about an hour.

“They have joined another party here,” said Raoul, “with pack-mules.”

“How know you?” I inquired.

“I can tell by the shouts of the arrieros. Listen! – they are making ready to start.”

There was a mingling of voices – exclamations addressed to their animals by the arrieros, such as:

“Mula! anda! vaya! levantate! carrai! mula – mulita! – anda! – st! – st!”

In the midst of this din I fancied that I heard the voice of a woman.

“Can it be – ?”

The thought was too painful.

A bugle at length sounded, and we felt ourselves again moving onward.

Our road appeared to run along the naked ridge. There were no trees, and the heat became intense. Our serapes, that had served us during the night, should have been dispensed with now, had we been consulted in relation to the matter. I did not know, until some time after, why these blankets had been given to us, as they had been hitherto very useful in the cold. It was not from any anxiety in regard to our comfort, as I learned afterwards.

We began to suffer from thirst, and Raoul asked one of the guerilleros for water.

“Carajo!” answered the man, “it’s no use: you’ll be choked by and by with something else than thirst.”

The brutal jest called forth a peal of laughter from his comrades.

About noon we commenced descending a long hill. I could hear the sound of water ahead.

“Where are we, Raoul?” I inquired faintly.

“Going down to a stream – a branch of the Antigua.”

“We are coming to another precipice?” I asked, with some uneasiness, as the roar of the torrent began to be heard more under our feet, and I snuffed the cold air from below.

“There is one, Captain. There is a good road, though, and well paved.”

“Paved! why, the country around is wild – is it not?”

“True; but the road was paved by the priests.”

“By the priests!” I exclaimed with some astonishment.

“Yes, Captain; there’s a convent in the valley, near the crossing; that is, there was one. It is now a ruin.”

We crept slowly down, our mules at times seeming to walk on their heads. The hissing of the torrent grew gradually louder, until our ears were filled with its hoarse rushing.

I heard Raoul below me shouting some words in a warning voice, when suddenly he seemed borne away, as if he had been tumbled over the precipice.

I expected to feel myself next moment launched after him into empty space, when my mule, uttering a loud whinny, sprang forward and downward.

Down – down! the next leap into eternity! No – she keeps her feet! she gallops along a level path! I am safe!

I was swung about until the thongs seemed to cut through my limbs; and with a heavy plunge I felt myself carried thigh-deep into water.

Here the animal suddenly halted.

As soon as I could gain breath I shouted at the top of my voice for the Frenchman.

“Here, Captain!” he answered, close by my side, but, as I fancied, with a strange, gurgling voice.

“Are you hurt, Raoul?” I inquired.

“Hurt? No, Captain.”

“What was it, then?”

“Oh! I wished to warn you, but I was too late. I might have known they would stampede, as the poor brutes have been no better treated than ourselves. Hear how they draw it up!”

“I am choking!” I exclaimed, listening to the water as it filtered through the teeth of my mule.

“Do as I do, Captain,” said Raoul, speaking as if from the bottom of a well.

“How?” I asked.

“Bend down, and let the water run into your mouth.”

This accounted for Raoul’s voice sounding so strangely.

“They may not give us a drop,” continued he. “It is our only chance.”

“I have not even that,” I replied, after having vainly endeavoured to reach the surface with my face.

“Why?” asked my comrade.

“I cannot reach it.”

“How deep are you?”

“To the saddle-flaps.”

“Ride this way, Captain. It’s deeper here.”

“How can I? My mule is her own master, as far as I am concerned.”

“Parbleu!” said the Frenchman. “I did not think of that.”

But, whether to oblige me, or moved by a desire to cool her flanks, the animal plunged forward into a deeper part of the stream.

After straining myself to the utmost, I was enabled to “duck” my head. In this painful position I contrived to get a couple of swallows; but I should think I took in quite as much at my nose and ears.

Clayley and Chane followed our example, the Irishman swearing loudly that it was a “burnin’ shame to make a dacent Christyin dhrink like a horse in winkers.”

Our guards now commenced driving our mules out of the water. As we were climbing the bank, someone touched me lightly upon the arm; and at the same instant a voice whispered in my ear, “Courage, Captain!”

I started – it was the voice of a female. I was about to reply, when a soft, small hand was thrust under the tapojo, and pushed something between my lips. The hand was immediately withdrawn, and I heard the voice urging a horse onward.

The clatter of hoofs, as of a horse passing me in a gallop, convinced me that this mysterious agent was gone, and I remained silent.

“Who can it be Jack? No. Jack has a soft voice – a small hand; but how could he be here, and with his hands free? No – no – no! Who then? It was certainly the voice of a woman – the hand, too. What other should have made this demonstration? I know no other – it must – it must have been – .”

I continued my analysis of probabilities, always arriving at the same result. It was both pleasant and painful: pleasant to believe she was thus, like an angel, watching over me – painful to think that she might be in the power of my fiendish enemy.

But is she so? Lincoln’s blow may have ended him. We have heard nothing of him since. Would to heaven – !

It was an impious wish, but I could not control it.

“What have I got between my lips? A slip of paper! Why was it placed there, and not in my bosom or my button-hole? Ha! there is more providence in the manner of the act than at first thought appears. How could I have taken it from either the one or the other, bound as I am? Moreover it may contain what would destroy the writer, if known to – . Cunning thought – for one so young and innocent, too – but love – .”

I pressed the paper against the tapojo, covering it with my lips, so as to conceal it in case the blind should be removed.

“Halted again?”

“It is the ruin, Captain – the old convent of Santa Bernardina.”

“But why do they halt here?”

“Likely to noon and breakfast – that on the ridge was only their desayuna. The Mexicans of the tierra caliente never travel during mid-day. They will doubtless rest here until the cool of the evening.”

“I trust they will extend the same favour to us,” said Clayley: “God knows we stand in need of rest. I’d give them three months’ pay for an hour upon the treadmill, only to stretch my limbs.”

“They will take us down, I think – not on our account, but to ease the mules. Poor brutes! they are no parties to this transaction.”

Raoul’s conjecture proved correct. We were taken out of our saddles, and, being carefully bound as before, we were hauled into a damp room, and flung down upon the floor. Our captors went out. A heavy door closed after them, and we could hear the regular footfall of a sentry on the stone pavement without. For the first time since our capture we were left alone. This my comrades tested by rolling themselves all over the floor of our prison to see if anyone was present with us. It was but a scant addition to our liberty; but we could converse freely, and that was something.

Note. Desayuna is a slight early meal.

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.”

My ear at this moment caught the sound of dogs barking hoarsely below. Horses of the cavalcade commenced neighing, answered by others from the adjacent fields, who recognised their old companions.

“It must be near night,” I remarked to Raoul.

“I think, about sunset, Captain,” rejoined he. “It feels about that time.”

I could not help smiling. There was something ludicrous in my comrade’s remark about “feeling” the sunset.

The barking of the dogs now ceased, and we could hear voices ahead welcoming the guerilleros.

The hoofs of our mules struck upon a hard pavement, and the sounds echoed as if under an arched way.

Our animals were presently halted, and we were unpacked and flung rudely down upon rough stones, like so many bundles of merchandise.

We lay for some minutes listening to the strange voices around. The neighing of horses, the barking and growling of dogs, the lowing of cattle, the shouts of the arrieros unpacking their mules, the clanking of sabres along the stone pavement, the tinkling of spurs, the laughter of men, and the voices of women – all were in our ears at once.

Two men approached us, conversing.

“They are of the party that escaped us at La Virgen. Two of them are officers.”

“Chingaro! I got this at La Virgen, and a full half-mile off. ’Twas some black jugglery in their bullets. I hope the patrone will hang the Yankee savages.”

“Quien sabe?” (Who knows?) replied the first speaker. “Pinzon has been taken this morning at Puenta Moreno, with several others. They had a fandango with the Yankee dragoons. You know what the old man thinks of Pinzon. He’d sooner part with his wife.”

“You think he will exchange them, then?”

“It is not unlikely.”

“And yet he wouldn’t trouble much if you or I had been taken. No – no; he’d let us be hanged like dogs!”

“Well; that’s always the way, you know.”

“I begin to get tired of him. By the Virgin! José, I’ve half a mind to slip off and join the Padré.”

“Jarauta?”

“Yes; he’s by the Bridge, with a brave set of Jarochos – some of our old comrades upon the Rio Grande among them. They are living at free quarters along the road, and having gay times of it, I hear. If Jarauta had taken these Yankees yesterday, the zopiloté would have made his dinner upon them to-day.”

“That’s true,” rejoined the other; “but come – let us un-blind the devils and give them their beans. It may be the last they’ll ever eat.”

With this consoling remark, José commenced unbuckling our tapojos, and we once more looked upon the light. The brilliance at first dazzled us painfully, and it was some minutes before we could look steadily at the objects around us.

We had been thrown upon the pavement in the corner of the patio– a large court, surrounded by massive walls and flat-roofed houses.

These buildings were low, single-storied, except the range in front, which contained the principal dwellings. The remaining three sides were occupied by stables, granaries, and quarters for the guerilleros and servants. A portale extended along the front range, and large vases, with shrubs and flowers, ornamented the balustrade. The portale was screened from the sun by curtains of bright-coloured cloth. These were partially drawn, and objects of elegant furniture appeared within.

Near the centre of the patio was a large fountain, boiling up into a reservoir of hewn mason-work; and around this fountain were clumps of orange-trees, their leaves in some places dropping down into the water. Various arms hung or leaned against the walls – guns, pistols, and sabres – and two small pieces of cannon, with their caissons and carriages, stood in a prominent position. In these we recognised our old acquaintances of La Virgen.

A long trough stretched across the patio, and out of this a double row of mules and mustangs were greedily eating maize. The saddle-tracks upon their steaming sides showed them to be the companions of our late wearisome journey.

Huge dogs lay basking upon the hot stones, growling at intervals as someone galloped in through the great doorway. Their broad jaws and tawny hides bespoke the Spanish bloodhound – the descendants of that race with which Cortez had harried the conquered Aztecs.

The guerilleros were seated or standing in groups around the fires, broiling jerked beef upon the points of their sabres. Some mended their saddles, or were wiping out an old carbine or a clumsy escopette. Some strutted around the yard, swinging their bright mangas, or trailing after them the picturesque serape. Women in rebozos and coloured skirts walked to and fro among the men.

The women carried jars filled with water. They knelt before smooth stones, and kneaded tortillas. They stirred chilé and chocolate in earthen ollas. They cooked frijoles in flat pans; and amidst all these occupations they joked and laughed and chatted with the men.

Several men – officers, from their style of dress – came out of the portale, and, after delivering orders to the guerilleros on guard, returned to the house.

Packages of what appeared to be merchandise lay in one corner of the court. Around this were groups of arrieros, in their red leathern garments, securing their charge for the night, and laying out their alparejas in long rows by the wall.