Gustave Aimard
The Border Rifles: A Tale of the Texan War

CHAPTER XIV
THE CONDUCTA DE PLATA

We will now return to the caravan, which we saw leave the Potrero at sunrise, and in the Chief of which Carmela seemed so greatly interested.

This Chief was a young man of about five-and-twenty, with delicate, dashing, and distinguished features; he wore, with supreme elegance, the brilliant uniform of a Captain of Dragoons.

Although he belonged to one of the oldest and noblest families in Mexico, Don Juan Melendez de Gongora would only owe his promotion to himself; an extraordinary desire in a country where military honour is regarded almost as nothing, and where only the superior grades give those who hold them a degree of consideration which is rather the result of fear than of sympathy, on the part of the people.

Still Don Juan had persevered in his eccentric idea, and each step he won was not the result of a pronunciamento successfully carried out by any ambitious General, but that of a brilliant action. Don Juan belonged to that class of real Mexicans who honestly love their country, and who, jealous of its honour, dream for it a restoration, very difficult, if not impossible, to obtain.

The force of virtue is so great, even on the most depraved natures, that Captain Don Juan Melendez de Gongora was respected by all the men who approached him, even by those who loved him the least.

However, the Captain's virtue had nothing austere or exaggerated about it; he was a thorough soldier, gay, obliging, brave as his sword, and ever ready to help, either with his arm or purse, all those, friends or foes, who had recourse to him. Such, physically and morally, was the man who commanded the caravan, and granted his protection to the monk who rode by his side.

This worthy Frayle, about whom we have had already occasion to say a few words, deserves a detailed description.

Physically, he was a man of about fifty, almost as tall as he was wide, bearing a striking likeness to a barrel set on legs, and yet gifted with far from common strength and activity; his violet nose, his huge lips, and ruddy face, gave him a jovial appearance, which two little grey sunken eyes, full of fire and resolution, rendered ironical and mocking.

Morally, he was in no way distinguished from the majority of Mexican monks – that is to say, he was ignorant as a carp, prone to drinking, a passionate lover of the fair sex, and superstitious in the highest degree; but for all that, the best companion in the world, at home in all society, and always able to raise a laugh.

What singular accident could have brought him so far on the border? This no one knew or cared for, as everyone was aware of the vagabond humour of Mexican monks, whose life is constantly passed in roaming from one place to the other, without object, and generally without interest, but simply at the dictates of caprice.

At this period, Texas, joined to another province, formed a state called Texas and Cohahuila.

The party commanded by Don Juan de Melendez left Nacogdoches eight days previously, bound for Mexico; but the Captain, in accordance with the instructions he received, left the ordinary road, inundated at that moment with bands of brigands of every description, and made a long circuit to avoid certain ill-famed gorges of the Sierra de San Saba. He would still have to cross that range; but on the side of the great prairies, that is to say, at the spot where the plateaux, gradually descending, do not offer those variations of landscape which are so dangerous to travellers.

The ten mules the Captain escorted must be loaded with very precious merchandise, for the Federal Government – seeing the small number of troops it had in the State – to have resolved on having it convoyed by forty dragoons under an officer of Don Juan's reputation, whose presence, under existing circumstances, would have been highly necessary, not to say indispensable, in the interior of the State, in order to suppress revolutionary attempts, and keep the inhabitants in the path of duty.

In fact, the merchandise was very valuable; these ten mules transported three millions of piastres, which would assuredly be a grand windfall for the insurgents, if they fell into their hands.

The time was left far behind, when, under the rule of the Viceroys, the Spanish flag borne at the head of a train of fifty or sixty mules laden with gold, was sufficient to protect a conducta de plata effectually, and enable it to traverse, without the slightest risk, the whole width of Mexico, so great was the terror inspired by the mere name of Spain.

Now, it was not one hundred, or sixty mules; but ten, which forty resolute men seemed hardly sufficient to protect.

The government considered it advisable to employ the greatest prudence in sending off this conducta, which had long been expected at Mexico. The greatest silence was maintained as to the hour and day of departure, and the road it would follow.

The bales were made so as to conceal, as far as possible, the nature of the merchandise carried; the mules sent off one by one, in open day, only under the protection of the arriero, joined, fifteen leagues from the town, the escort which had been encamped for more than a month, under some plausible excuse, in an ancient presidio.

All had, therefore, been foreseen and calculated with the greatest care and intelligence to get this precious merchandise in safety to its destination; the arrieros, the only persons who knew the value of their load, would be careful not to speak about it, for the little they possessed was made responsible for the safety of their freight, and they ran the risk of being utterly ruined if their mules were robbed on the road.

The conducta advanced in the most excellent order, to the sound of the Néna's bells; the arrieros sang gaily their mules, urging them on by this eternal "arrea, Mula! Arrea, Linda!"

The pennons fastened to the long lances of the dragoons fluttered in the morning breeze, and the Captain listened idly to the monk's chatter, while at intervals taking a searching glance over the deserted plain.

"Come, come, Fray Antonio," he said to his stout companion, "you can no longer regret having set out at so early an hour, for the morning is magnificent, and everything forebodes a pleasant day."

"Yes, yes," the other replied with a laugh; "thanks to Nuestra Señora de la Soledad, honourable Captain, we are in the best possible state for travelling."

"Well, I am glad to find you in such good spirits, for I feared lest the rather sudden waking this morning might have stirred up your bile."

"I, good gracious, honourable Captain!" he replied, with feigned humility; "we unworthy members of the church must submit without murmuring to all the tribulations which it pleases the Lord to send us; and besides, life is so short, that it is better only to look at the bright side, not to lose in vain regret the few moments of joy to which we can lay claim."

"Bravo! That is the sort of philosophy I like; you are a good companion, Padre – I hope we shall travel together for a long while."

"That depends a little on you, Señor Captain."

"On me? how so?"

"Well, on the direction you propose following."

"Hum!" Don Juan said; "and pray where may you be going, Señor Padre?"

This old-fashioned tactic of answering one question by another, is excellent, and nearly always succeeds. This time the monk was caught; but, in accordance with the habit of his brethren, his answer was as it was meant to be, evasive.

"Oh, I," he said with affected carelessness; "all roads are pretty nearly the same to me; my gown assures me, wherever chance bends my steps, pleasant faces and hearty reception."

"That is true; hence I am surprised at the question you asked me an instant back."

"Oh, it is not worth troubling yourself about, honourable Captain. I should feel agonised at having annoyed you, hence I humbly beg you to pardon me."

"You have in no way annoyed me, Señor Padre. I have no reason for concealing the road I purpose following; this recua of mules I am escorting does not affect me in any way, and I propose leaving it to-morrow or the day after."

The monk could not restrain a start of surprise.

"Ah!" he said, as he looked searchingly at the speaker.

"Oh yes," the Captain continued, in an easy tone, "these worthy men begged me to accompany them for a few days, through fear of the gavillas that infest the roads; they have, it appears, valuable merchandize with them, and would not like to be plundered."

"I understand; it would not be at all pleasant for them."

"Would it? hence I did not like to refuse them the slight service which took me only a little way out of my road; but so soon as they consider themselves in safety, I shall leave them and enter the prairie, in accordance with the instructions I have received, for you know that the Indios Bravos are stirring."

"No, I was not aware of it."

"Well, in that case, I tell it you; there is a magnificent opportunity that presents itself to you, Padre Antonio, and you must not neglect it."

"A magnificent opportunity for me?" the monk repeated, in amazement; "What opportunity, honourable Captain?"

"For preaching to the Infidels, and teaching them the dogmas of our Holy Faith," he replied, with imperturbable coolness.

At this abrupt proposal the monk made a frightful face.

"Deuce take the opportunity!" he exclaimed, snapping his fingers; "I will leave that to other asses! I feel no inclination for martyrdom."

"As you please, Padre; still you are wrong."

"That is possible, honourable Captain, but hang me if I accompany you near those pagans; in two days I shall leave you."

"So soon as that?"

"Why, I suppose, that since you are going on to the prairie, you will leave the recua of mules you are escorting at the Rancho of San Jacinto, which is the extreme point of the Mexican possessions on the desert border."

"It is probable."

"Well, I will go on with the muleteers; as all the dangerous passes will then have been left behind, I shall have nothing to fear, and shall continue my journey in the most agreeable way possible."

"Ah," the Captain said to him, with a piercing glance; but he was unable to continue this conversation, which seemed highly interesting to him, for a horseman galloped up at full speed from the front, stopped before him, and stooping to his ear, whispered a few words.

The Captain looked scrutinizingly round him, drew himself up in the saddle, and addressed the soldier —

"Very good. How many are they?"

"Two, Captain."

"Watch them, but do not let them suspect they are prisoners; on arriving at the halting ground I will cross-question them. Rejoin your comrades."

The soldier bowed respectfully without reply, and went off at the same speed he had come up.

Captain Melendez had for a long time accustomed his subordinates not to discuss his orders, but obey them unhesitatingly.

We mention this fact because it is excessively rare in Mexico, where military discipline is almost a nullity, and subordination unknown.

Don Juan closed up the ranks of the escort, and ordered them to hurry on.

The monk had seen with secret alarm the conference between the officer and the soldier, of which he was unable to catch a word. When the Captain, after attentively watching the execution of his orders, returned to his place by his side, Father Antonio tried to jest about what had happened, and the cloud of gravity that had suddenly darkened the officer's face.

"Oh, oh," he said to him, with a loud laugh, "how gloomy you are, Captain! did you see three owls flying on your right? The pagans assert that such is an evil omen."

"Perhaps so," the Captain drily replied.

The tone in which the remark was uttered had nothing friendly or inviting about it. The monk understood that any conversation at this moment was impossible; he took the hint, bit his lips, and continued to ride silently by his companion's side.

An hour later they reached the bivouac; neither the monk nor the officer had said a word; but the nearer they came to the spot selected for the halt, the more anxious each seemed to grow.

CHAPTER XV
THE HALT

The sun had almost entirely disappeared on the horizon at the moment when the caravans reached the halting ground.

This spot, situated on the top of a rather scarped hill, had been selected with that sagacity which distinguishes Texan or Mexican arrieros; any surprise was impossible, and the aged trees that grew on the crest of the hill would, in the event of an attack, offer a secure protection against bullets.

The mules were unloaded, but, contrary to the usual custom, the bales, instead of being employed as a breastwork for the camp, were piled up and placed out of reach of the marauders whom chance or cupidity might attract to this quarter when the darkness had set in.

Seven or eight large fires were lit in a circle, in order to keep off wild beasts; the mules received their ration of Indian corn on mantas or horsecloths laid on the ground; then, so soon as sentinels were posted round the camp, the troopers and arrieros were busily engaged in preparing the poor supper, which the day's fatigues rendered necessary.

Captain Don Juan and the monk, who had gone a little aside to a fire lit expressly for them, were beginning to smoke their husk cigarettes, while the officer's servant was hastily preparing his master's meal – a meal, we are bound to say, as simple as that of the other members of the caravan, but which hunger had the privilege of rendering not only appetising, but almost succulent, although it was only composed of a few varas of tocino, or meat dried in the sun, and four or five biscuits.

The Captain soon finished his supper. He then rose, and, as night had completely fallen, went to visit the sentries, and see that all was in order. When he resumed his place by the fire, Father Antonio, with his feet turned to the flame, and wrapped in a thick zarapé, was sleeping, or pretending to sleep, soundly.

Don Juan examined him for a moment with an expression of hatred and contempt, impossible to describe, shook his head twice or thrice thoughtfully, and then told his assistants, who were standing a few paces off in expectation of his orders, to have the two prisoners brought up.

These prisoners had hitherto been kept apart; though treated with respect, it was, however, easy for them to see that they were guarded with the greatest care; still, either through carelessness or some other reason, they did not appear to notice the fact, for their weapons had been left them, and, judging from their muscular force and energetic features, though both had reached middle life, there was fair ground for supposing when the moment arrived for them to insist on their liberty, they would be the men to try and regain it by force.

Without any remark they followed the Captain's servant, and soon found themselves before that officer.

Though the night was gloomy, the flames of the fire spread sufficient light around to illumine the faces of the new comers.

On seeing them Don Juan gave a start of surprise, but one of the prisoners laid his finger on his lip to recommend prudence to him, and at the same time glanced significantly at the monk lying near them.

The Captain understood this dumb warning, to which he replied by a light nod of the head, and then affected the utmost carelessness.

"Who are you?" he asked, as he idly rolled a cigarette between his fingers.

"Hunters," one of the prisoners answered, without hesitation.

"You were found a few hours back halting on the bank of a stream."

"Quite correct."

"What were you doing there?"

The prisoner bent a scrutinizing glance around, and then looked again boldly at the speaker.

"Before giving any further answer to your questions," he said, "I should like to ask you one in my turn."

"What is it?"

"Your right to cross-question me?"

"Look round you," the Captain lightly replied.

"Yes, I understand you, the right of force. Unluckily I do not recognize that right. I am a free hunter, acknowledging no other law but my will, no other master but myself."

"Oh, oh! your language is bold, comrade."

"It is that of a man not accustomed to yield to any arbitrary power; to take me you have abused – I do not say your strength, for your soldiers would have killed me, before compelling me to follow them, had not such been my intention – but the facility with which I confided in you: I therefore protest against it, and demand my immediate freedom."

"Your haughty language has no effect on me, and were it my good pleasure to force you to speak, I could compel you by certain irresistible arguments I possess."

"Yes," the prisoner said, bitterly, "the Mexicans remember the Spaniards their ancestors, and appeal to torture when necessary; well, try it, Captain – who prevents you? I trust that my gray hairs will not grow weak before your young moustache."

"Enough of this," the Captain said, angrily. "If I give you your liberty, should I deliver a friend or a foe?"

"Neither."

"Hum! what do you mean?"

"My answer is clear enough, surely."

"Still, I do not understand it."

"I will explain in two words."

"Speak."

"Both of us being placed in diametrically opposite positions, chance has thought proper to bring us together to-day: if we now part, we shall take with us no feeling of hatred through our meeting, because neither you nor I have had cause to complain of each other, and probably we shall never see each other again."

"Still, it is plain that when my soldiers found you, you were expecting somebody on this road."

"What makes you suppose that?"

"Hang it! you told me you were hunters; I do not see any game you could hunt along this road."

The prisoner began laughing.

"Who knows?" he replied, with a stress on his words, "Perhaps it was more precious game than you may fancy, and of which you would like to have your share."

The monk gave a slight start, and opened his eyes as awaking.

"What?" he said, addressing the Captain, and stifling a yawn. "You are not asleep, Don Juan?"

"Not yet," the latter answered. "I am questioning the two men my vanguard arrested some hours ago."

"Ah!" the monk remarked with a disdainful glance at the strangers, "these poor devils do not appear to me very alarming."

"You think so?"

"I do not know what you can have to fear from these men."

"Perhaps they are spies?"

Fray Antonio assumed a paternal air.

"Spies?" he said; "Do you fear an ambuscade?"

"Under the circumstances in which we now are, that supposition is not so improbable, I fancy."

"Nonsense! in a country like this, and with the escort you have at your service, that would be extraordinary; moreover, these two men let themselves be captured without resistance, as I heard, when they might easily have escaped."

"That is true."

"It is evident, then, that they had no bad intentions. If I were you, I would quietly let them go where they pleased."

"Is that your advice?"

"Indeed it is."

"You seem to take a great interest in these two strangers."

"I? Not the least in the world. I only tell you what is right, that's all: now you can act as you please. I wash my hands of it."

"You may be right, still I will not set these persons at liberty till they have told me the name of the person they were expecting."

"Were they expecting anybody?"

"They say so, at any rate."

"It is true, Captain," said the person who had hitherto spoken; "but though we knew you were coming, it was not you we were waiting for."

"Who was it, then?"

"Do you insist on knowing?"

"Certainly."

"Then answer, Fray Antonio," the prisoner said with a grin; "for you alone can reveal the name the Captain asks of us."

"I?" the monk said with a start of passion, and turning pale as a corpse.

"Ah, ah!" the Captain said, as he turned to him, "this is beginning to grow interesting."

It was a singular scene presented by the four men standing round the fire, whose flame fantastically lit up their faces.

The Captain carelessly smoked his cigarette, while looking sarcastically at the monk, on whose face impudence and fear were fighting a battle, every incident in which was easy to read; the two hunters, with their hands crossed over the muzzles of their long rifles, smiled cunningly, and seemed to be quietly enjoying the embarrassment of the man whom they had placed in this terrible dilemma.

"Don't pretend to look so surprised, Padre Antonio," the prisoner then at length said; "you know very well we were expecting you."

"Me?" the monk said in a choking voice; "the scoundrel is mad, on my soul."

"I am not mad, Padre, and I will trouble you not to employ such language toward me," the prisoner replied drily.

"Come, give in," the other, who had hitherto been silent, cried coarsely; "I do not care to dance at the end of a rope for your good pleasure."

"Which will inevitably happen," the Captain remarked quietly, "if you do not decide, Caballeros, on giving me a clear and explicit explanation of your conduct."

"There you see, Señor Frayle," the prisoner continued, "our position is growing delicate; come, behave like a man."

"Oh!" the monk exclaimed furiously, "I have fallen into a horrible trap."

"Enough," the Captain said in a thundering voice; "this farce has lasted only too long, Padre Antonio. It is not you who have fallen into a trap, but you tried to draw me into one. I have known you for a long time, and possess the most circumstantial details about the plans you were devising. It is a dangerous game you have been playing for a long time; a man cannot serve GOD and the devil simultaneously, without all being discovered at last; still, I wished to confront you with these worthy men, in order to confound you, and make the mask fall from your hypocritical face."

At this rude apostrophe the Monk was for a moment stunned, crushed as he was beneath the weight of the charges brought against him; at length he raised his head and turned to the Captain.

"Of what am I accused?" he asked haughtily.

Don Juan smiled contemptuously.

"You are accused," he replied, "of having wished to lead the conducta I command into an ambush formed by you, and where at this moment your worthy acolytes are waiting to massacre and rob us. What will you reply to that?"

"Nothing," he answered, drily.

"You are right, for your denials would not be accepted. Still, now that you are convicted by your own confession, you will not escape without an eternal recollection of our meeting."

"Take care of what you are about to do, Señor Captain: I belong to the church, and this gown renders me inviolable."

A mocking smile contracted the Captain's lips.

"No matter for that," he replied, "it shall be stripped off you."

Most of the troopers and arrieros, aroused by the loud voices of the monk and the officer, had gradually drawn nearer, and attentively followed the conversation.

The Captain pointed to the monk, and addressed the soldiers.

"Strip off the gown that covers that man," he said; "fasten him to a catalpa, and give him two hundred lashes with a chicote."

"Villains!" the monk exclaimed, nearly out of his mind; "Any man of you who dares to lay hands on me I curse; he will be eternally condemned for having insulted a minister of the altar."

The soldiers stopped in terror before this anathema, which their ignorance and stupid superstition robbed them of the courage to brave.

The monk folded his arms, and addressed the officer triumphantly —

"Wretched madman," he said, "I could punish you for your audacity, but I pardon you. Heaven will undertake to avenge me, and you will be punished when your last hour arrives. Farewell! Make room for me to pass, fellows!"

The dragoons, confused and timid, fell back slowly and hesitatingly before him; the Captain, forced to confess his impotence, clenched his fists, as he looked passionately around him.

The monk had all but passed through the ranks of the soldiers, when he suddenly felt his arm clutched; he turned with the evident intention of severely reprimanding the man who was so audacious as to touch him, but the expression of his face suddenly changed on seeing who it was that stopped him, and looked at him craftily, for it was no other than the strange prisoner, the first cause of the insult offered him.

"One moment, Señor Padre," the hunter said. "I can understand that these worthy fellows, who are Catholics, should fear your curse, and dare not lay a hand on you through their dread of eternal flames, but with me it is different. I am a heretic, as you know, hence I run no risk in taking off your gown, and, with your permission, I will do you that slight service."

"Oh!" the monk replied, as he ground his teeth; "I will kill you, John, I will kill you, villain!"

"Nonsense, threatened people live a long while," John replied, as he forced him to take off his monk's gown.

"There," he continued, "now, my fine fellows, you can carry out your Captain's orders in perfect safety; this man is no more to you than the first comer."

The hunter's bold action suddenly broke the spell that enchained the soldiers. So soon as the much-feared gown no longer covered the monk's shoulders, listening to neither prayers nor threats, they seized the culprit, fastened him, in spite of his cries, securely to a catalpa, and conscientiously administered the two hundred lashes decreed by the Captain, while the hunters played their part by counting the blows and laughing loudly at the contortions of the wretched man, whom pain caused to writhe like a serpent.

At the one hundred and twenty-eighth lash the monk became silent: his nervous system being completely overthrown, rendered him insensible; still, he did not faint, his teeth were clenched, a white foam escaped from his crisped lips, he looked fixedly before him without seeing anything, and giving no other signs of existence than the heavy sighs which at intervals upheld his muscular chest.

When the punishment was ended, and he was unfastened, he fell to the ground like a log, and lay there motionless.

His robe was handed back to him, and he was left to lie there, no one troubling himself further about him.

The two hunters then went off, after talking to the Captain for some minutes in a low voice.

The rest of the night passed away without incident.

A few minutes before sunrise, the soldiers and arrieros prepared to load the mules, and prepare everything for the start.

"Stay," the Captain suddenly exclaimed, "where is the monk? We cannot abandon him thus; lay him on a mule, and we will leave him at the first rancho we come to."

The soldiers hastened to obey, and look for Padre Antonio, but all their search was in vain; he had disappeared, and left no trace of his flight.

Don Juan frowned at the news, but, after a moment's reflection, he shook his head carelessly.

"All the better," he said, "he would have been in our way."

The conducta herewith started again.