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The Bandolero: or, A Marriage among the Mountains

Chapter Seventeen.
At Matins

It was the first time I had made my devotions in a Roman Catholic Cathedral; and I shall not say that I then worshipped as I should have done.

Santa Gaudalupe – beautiful as the sensuous Mexican priesthood have had the cunning to conceive her – glorious as she appeared in her golden shrine – was scarce regarded by me.

More attractive were the black lace shawl and high comb of Mercedes Villa-Señor – not for themselves, but for the lovely countenance I knew to be underneath them.

I watched them with eyes that wandered not. In my heart I anathematised them as the most detestable screens ever interposed between a lover’s eye and its idol.

While engaged in her devotions a Mexican señorita assumes three distinct attitudes. She stands, she kneels, she squats. I regret my inability to express in more elegant phrase, that peculiar species of genuflexion, which may be described as the dropping down from the kneeling attitude to one a degree lower. It is a feat of feminine gymnastics that has long mystified me; and I am not anatomist enough either to comprehend or explain it.

Mercedes Villa-Señor appeared perfect in every posé. Even her squatting was graceful!

I watched her changing attitudes as the ceremony proceeded – the chant, the prayer, the lesson. During all these she never once looked round. I thought she must be a saint– a thought scarce in keeping with the conjectures I had hitherto shaped concerning her.

It gave me but slight pleasure to think she was so holy. I should have preferred finding her human – that angel of angels!

Dolores appeared less devout. At all events, she was less attentive to her prayers. Twenty times I perceived her eyes averted from the altar – turned toward the doorway – peering into shadowy aisles – looking everywhere but upon the officiating priest.

His shaven crown had no attraction for her. She searched for the shining curls of “querido Francisco!”

He was not in the Cathedral – at least, I could not see him. I had my own thoughts about the cause of his absence.

Less accustomed to “sparkling wine,” he had not borne its effects like the boon companion who shared the revel along with him; or had not so readily recovered from it.

Certainly he was not there. So much the less trouble for Tia Josefa!

I could have told Dolores a tale that would have given her gratification. I wanted to do as much for Mercedes.

The time passed – chant and psalm, lesson and prayer, rapidly succeeding one another. Bells were tinkled, incense burnt, and wax candles carried about.

Still kept Mercedes her eyes upon the altar; still seemed she absorbed by a ceremonial, which to me appeared more than absurd – idolatrous.

In my heart I hated it worse than ever in my life. I could scarce restrain myself from scowling upon the priest. I envied him the position that could make his paltry performance so attractive – to eyes like those then looking upon him.

Thank heaven they are mine at last – at last!

Yes: at last they were mine. I was seen, and recognised.

I had entered the Cathedral without thought of worshipping at its altar. The love I carried in my heart was different from that inculcated within those sacred walls – far different from that inscribed upon the tablet: “God is love.” My love was human; and, perhaps, impure! I shall not say that it was what it should have been – a love, such as we read of among troubadours and knights-errant of the olden time. I can lay claim to belong to no other class than that of the simple adventurer; who, with tongue, pen, or sword – as the chances turned up – has been able, in some sort, to make his way through the world!

In my designs there may have been selfishness; but not one iota in the passion I felt for Mercedes Villa-Señor. It was too romantic to be mean.

In her first glance I read recognition. Only that and nothing more, – at least nothing to gratify me.

But it was soon followed by another, on which I was pleased to place a different interpretation. It was the warm look that had won, and once more seemed to welcome me!

There was a third, and a fourth, timidly stolen through the fringe of the chalé. The very stealth flattered my vanity, and gave a new impulse to my hopes. There was more than one reason for it: the sacredness of the place; the reticence of maiden modesty; and perhaps more than either: the presence of Tia Josefa.

Again our glances met – mine given with all the ardour of a love long restrained.

Once more they met in sweet exchanging – once more, and once more. I had won Mercedes from her worship!

No doubt it was wicked of me to feel joy at the thought; and, no doubt, I deserved the punishment that was in store for me.

Chapter Eighteen.
A Challenge in a Church

While carrying on my eye-courtship with the kneeling devotee, I stood somewhat in shadow. A column, with the statue of some canonised churchman, afforded me a niche where I was concealed from the other worshippers.

But there was a darker shadow behind me – occupied by a darker substance.

Tia Josefa was not the only spy present in the Cathedral.

I was made aware of it, by hearing a voice – of course spoken in a whisper, but so close to my ear, that I had no difficulty in distinguishing every word.

The voice said: —

“Por Dios, caballero! You appear greatly interested in the oracion! You cannot be a heretico, like the rest of your countrymen?”

The sting of a wasp could not have caused me a more unpleasant sensation. The double meaning of the speech was not to be mistaken. The speaker had observed the eye signals passing between Mercedes and myself!

I glanced into the gloom behind me.

It was some seconds before I could see any one. My eyes dazzled with the splendour of the church adornments, refused to do their office.

Before I could trace out either his shape, or countenance, the whispering stranger again addressed me: —

“I hope, señor, you will not be offended by my free speech? It gratifies us Catolicos to perceive that our Holy Church is making converts among the Americanos. I’ve been told there is a good deal of this sort of thing. Our padres will be delighted to know that their conquest by the Word is likely to compensate for our defeat by the sword.”

Despite the impertinence, there was something so ingenious in the argument thus introduced, that I was prevented from making immediate reply. Stark surprise had also to do with my silence.

I waited upon my eyes, in order that I might first see what sort of personage was speaking to me.

Gradually my sight overcame the obscurity, and disclosed what the corner contained: a man several degrees darker than the shadow itself, up to his ears in a serapé, with a black sombrero above them, and between hat and “blanket” a countenance that could only belong to a scoundrel!

I could see a bearded chin and lip, and a face lit up by a pair of eyes sparkling with sinister light. I could see, moreover, that despite the badinage of the speeches addressed to me there was real anger in them!

The sarcasm was all pretence. He, who had given utterance to it, was too much in earnest to deal long in irony; and I did not for a moment doubt that I was standing in the presence of one who, like myself, was a candidate for the smiles of Mercedes Villa-Señor.

The thought was not one to make me more tolerant of the slight that had been put upon me. On the contrary, it but increased my indignation – already at a white heat.

“Señor!” I said, in a voice with great difficulty toned down to a whisper, “you may thank your stars you are inside a church. If you’d spoken those words upon the street, they’d have been the last of your life.”

“The street’s not far off. Come out; and I shall there repeat them.”

“Agreed!”

My challenger was nearest to the door, and started first. I followed three steps after.

In the vestibule I paused – only for a second – to see whether my exit was being noted by the kneeling Mercedes.

It was. She was gazing after me – no longer by stealth; but in surprise; I fancied in chagrin!

Had she divined the cause of my abrupt departure?

That was scarcely probable.

In the position lately occupied by my unknown challenger, she could not have seen him. The statue interposed; and the column covered him, as he stepped towards the door.

I returned her glance by one intended to reassure her. With my eyes I said: —

“A moment, sweet saint, and you shall see me again!”

Chapter Nineteen.
A Quiet Street

I was not so confident of being able to keep my promise, as I stepped out into the sunlight, and saw a little before me the man who was to be my antagonist.

He stood six feet in his russet boots, with a frame that seemed as sinewy, as herculean. He had all the look of a vieux sabreur; and I knew he would insist upon the sword for his weapon.

A Mexican makes but a poor fight with firearms. They are too noisy for taking life – in the way he oft wishes to take it. I was certain my challenger would choose the sword.

By the etiquette of the duello, I might have insisted upon having the choice; but I was too angry to stand upon punctilios.

The Cathedral of Puebla stands upon a raised dais– with a stone stairway along its façade, and around three sides. Down this the stranger preceded me – having already descended several of the steps before I came out.

At the bottom he paused to await me; and there, for the first time, I had a fair chance of scrutinising him.

Forty, but with that tough, terse figure that betokens a man who has passed his life in energetic action, and whose nerves have never been a day out of training.

The face was not a whit improved by the light of the sun. It looked as foul as I had fancied it, when seen under the shadow of the Saint. It told of an ill-spent past, and prognosticated an evil future.

What could the man want with me?

Under other circumstances I might have asked the question; but I did not then. I had a tolerably clear comprehension, of what had stimulated him to seek the desafio.

Like myself, he was in love with Mercedes Villa-Señor; like myself, ready to defy to the death whoever might present himself as a rival!

He had recognised me as such; a successful one – if his interpretation of her glances corresponded with my own.

I had no doubt about this being the reason for his having so deliberately provoked me.

“It’s rather public just here,” said he, on receiving me at the bottom of the stair. “The Piazza is not the best place for a purpose like ours.”

“Why not?” I asked, impatient to put an end to an episode that was causing me annoyance.

“Oh! only that we are likely to be interrupted by policemen, or patrols. Perhaps you would prefer it that way?”

“Lepero!” I cried, losing all temper. “Take me where you will – only be quick about it! Once on the ground, there won’t be much chance for either policeman or patrol, to save you from the sword you are tempting from its scabbard. Lead on!”

“There’s a quiet street close by,” said he, with a coolness that surprised, and, but for my rage, might have disconcerted me; “There we can have our game out, without risk of interruption. You consent to our going there?”

“Certainly. The place is all one to me. As to the time, it won’t take long to teach you a lesson, that will last you for your life.”

“Nos veremos, señor! Nos vamos!” was the singular response of my challenger, as he started to conduct me to the “quiet street.”

Mechanically I walked after him, though not without misgivings. Had I been in a proper state of mind, I might have reflected more seriously on the step I was called upon to take.

It could scarce have appeared other than it really was – imprudent.

After passing through several streets, we came to the entrance of that we were in search of.

On turning into it, some vague remembrance flitted across my brain. I fancied I had been there before.

I glanced up to the coign of the corner house. In black lettering I read the inscription: —

“Callecito de los Pajaros!”

I next looked at my man. I had also some vague memory about him– associated with the “Little Street of the Sparrows.”

The locality quickened my recollection; and before proceeding farther, I stopped short, and demanded his name.

“Carrambo! Why do you ask that?” he inquired, in a taunting tone. “Do you intend to report me in the other world, for despatching you prematurely out of this? Ha! ha! ha!”

“Well,” he continued, “I won’t disappoint you. Tell the devil, when you see him, that he is indebted to Captain Torreano Carrasco for sending him a subject. Now, señor! are you ready to die?”

There needed no further proof to tell me I was entrapped. If there had, it was furnished by sight of a half-score savage-looking pelados, who, issuing from the adjacent doors, came running towards us – evidently intending to take part in the combat.

No longer to be a duel. I saw that my challenger had no thought of such a thing. He had changed his chivalric tone, and his voice was once more heard leading the contemptible cry —

“Muera el Americano!”

Chapter Twenty.
Rescued by Red Hats

The Street of the Sparrows appeared to be my doomed spot. For the second time there seemed no chance of my getting out of it alive; and for the second time I made up my mind to die hard in it.

Despite the suddenness with which Carrasco had surprised me, I was upon my guard – before he or any of his comrades could come to close quarters.

But this time, alas! I was without revolver, or pistol of any kind. Not dreaming of danger at that early hour of the day, I had sallied forth, wearing only my parade sword. With this fickle weapon I could not possibly defend myself against half a score of men armed with thin long-bladed machetés.

Grasping its hilt was like leaning upon a reed.

I thought of Francisco of again throwing myself upon his protection.

But which of the fifty dwellings was his?

Even could I have told the right one, would I have time to reach it, or would he be at home?

There was a chance that he might be – that he might hear my cries, and come out. It was so slight as to seem hopeless; and yet I clutched at it, as a drowning man at a straw!

Shouting, I retreated along the street – in what I believed to be the direction of his dwelling.

I am not ashamed to acknowledge, that I called loudly for help – coupling my calls with the name of Francisco Moreno. A man, with death staring him in the teeth, may be excused for dropping a trifle of his dignity. I shouted like a respectable shopkeeper attacked by a gang of garotters.

The Street of the Sparrows was fatal to me only in promise; and for the second time fortune favoured my escape from it.

Help came; though not from the quarter so loudly solicited. Francisco’s door remained shut; at least it was not opened by him. It was thrown open by a score of Red Hats, who at that moment appeared entering the street.

At any other time the sight of these sanguinary allies would have caused me a thrill of antagonism. Now they seemed saints – as they proved saviours!

They had shown themselves in the nick of time. Carrasco and his compeers were close behind me – so close that the points of their machetés were within six inches of my spine.

On espying the Red Hats they retreated in the opposite direction – going off even faster than they had been following me!

Seeing myself disembarrassed of the danger, I advanced to meet my preservers. I had no idea of what they could be doing there; until I saw them stop in front of a house – where they demanded admittance.

The demand was made in a rude manner, and in terms of an unmistakeable determination to enter.

As no one opened the door, they commenced hammering upon it with the butts of their escopetas; for several of them were armed with this weapon.

The door finally gave way – having yielded at the hinges – and, swinging round, stood partially ajar.

Not till then had I the slightest suspicion of what the Red Hats were after. Some “bit of burglary,” I supposed, done in open day; for there was no reason to think the contrary. I could see they were a straggling lot – out on their own account, and without authority.

I was not enlightened about their object, till I saw the face of Francisco Moreno behind the half-opened door, scowlingly confronting them!

It was his house; though I had not before recognised it.

The conclusion came quick as electricity. They were there to arrest him, for killing one of their comrades on the night before, or being an accomplice in the act!

I heard them make the declaration to the young soldier himself.

They had sufficient respect for the law to treat with him for a quiet surrender. More probably they feared his resistance – as he stood sword in hand in the doorway – looking like anything but a man who was going to give himself up!

Had he yielded, they would scarce have kept faith with him. I had no doubt of their intention to slay him upon the spot, instead of taking him to their quarters.

It was a crisis that called for my interference; and I interfered.

It only needed the throwing open my cloak, and pointing out the “spread eagle” on my button.

The slightest disobedience to me would have cost them a score of lashes each – “on the bare back, well laid on.” Such was the phrasing of our military courts.

Nothing of the kind was attempted. I had full control of my rescuers – who were altogether unconscious of the service they had done me – ignorant also of the fact that it was I, not the Mexican, who had sent their camarado to his long account!

For myself I had no fear of them. I only feared for my friend: who, if left to their tender mercies, would never have paid another visit to the Street of the Bishop.

I did not leave him to be judged by the Red Tribunal. I made a compromise with their self-esteem – by taking a lead in his arrest!

To this the accused man, with some show of reluctance, submitted; and, in ten minutes after, he was transported to the Cuartel, occupied by the Rifle Rangers – though not to suffer the degradation of being shut up in its guard-house.

Chapter Twenty One.
Six O’clock – in the Alameda!

I had little difficulty in clearing the paroled officer from the charge of assassinating “a member of the Spy Company.”

As soon as his accusers discovered what I knew of that affair, they not only withdrew their accusation, but their own precious persons, beyond the reach of court-martial inquiry.

When “wanted,” to give testimony in the investigation that ensued, not one, but five, of Dominguez’s followers were reported “missing!” The four coadjutors of him who had been killed thought it more prudent not to press the charge; and when sent for, could not be found either in the “Spy” quarters, or elsewhere in the City of the Angels!

They had taken their departure a los Montes; and I was left alone to tell the story of that nocturnal encounter.

For their testimony I cared not a straw; though the episode was not without some beneficial effects. It taught our renegade allies a little lesion; which was no doubt afterwards profitable – if not to themselves – to those who were so unfortunate as to have dealings with them.

I was not so indifferent to the escape of the scoundrels who had attacked me in the “Street of the Sparrows;” and who appeared to have their head-quarters there.

In half an hour after leaving it with my escort of Red Hats, I was back again – accompanied by a score of Rifle Rangers, who assisted me in making an exploration of that interesting locality.

But the birds we went in search of had flown; and during the remainder of my stay in La Puebla de los Angeles, I never more set eyes upon my quaint challenger.

I learnt something more of him from Francisco – some chapters of his history that did not fail to astonish me. He had been a captain in the Mexican army; and would be so again, should the tyrant Santa Anna get restored to his dictatorial power. Whenever the star of the latter was in the ascendant, the former was sure of a commission.

But as the light of Santa Anna’s star had been of late only intermittent, so also was the holding of his commission by Captain Torreano Carrasco.

During the intervals which Francisco jocosely styled “his leaves of absence,” the gallant captain was in the habit of spending a portion of his time among the mountains.

“What does he do there?” I innocently inquired of my informant.

“Carrambo, señor! It is strange you should ask that. I thought everybody knew,” was the answer.

“Knew what?”

“That El Capitan Carrasco is un pocito de salteador.”

I was less astonished at the declaration, than the manner in which it was made.

The young Mexican appeared to treat the thing as of no great consequence, but rather a matter of course. He seemed to look upon it in the light of a levity – scarcely a crime – one of the Cosas de Mexico!

He was more serious when replying to my next question: “Has this Captain Carrasco any acquaintance with the daughters of Don Eusebio Villa-Señor?”

“Why do you ask, caballero?” he said, turning pale at the mention of the name; “You know them?”

“I have not the honour of knowing them, except by sight. I saw them this morning at matins. I saw Carrasco there too. He appeared to take an interest in their devotions.”

“If I thought so I’d – . Bah! it is not possible. He dare not – . Tell me, caballero; what did you observe?”

“Oh, nothing more than I’ve said. What do you know about it yourself?”

“En verdad, nothing either! It was only a thought I had – from something I once saw. I may have been mistaken. ’Tis of no consequence.”

We spoke no more upon the subject. It was evidently painful to Francisco Moreno – as it was to myself.

At a later period – when our acquaintance became better established – further confidence was exchanged between us; and I was told the story of Francisco’s courtship – to a portion of which, without his knowing it, I had listened before.

It was as I had supposed. There was an objection to his being united to his dear Dolores– her father being chief objector. The young soldier was but a “poor gentleman” – with no other prospect, save that at the point of his sword – not much in Mexico, to a man with an honest heart. There was a rival who was rich; and to this “party” Don Eusebio had promised his daughter – with the threat of a convent in the case of her refusal.

Notwithstanding this menace, Francisco was full of hope – based upon the promises of Dolores. She had expressed her determination to share penury with him rather than wed the rico, who was not of her choice – to die, or do anything rather than go into a convent!

I was not so communicative as my new acquaintance – at least as regarded my relationship with the family of Villa-Señor. To have spoken of Mercedes to another would have spoiled the romance of my passion. Not a word said I to Francisco of that hopeful affair.

From that day I became noted, as one of the earliest risers on the muster-roll of the American army. Not a morning did I outsleep the reveille; nor once missed matins in the Cathedral.

Several times I again saw Mercedes. Each time there was an exchange of glances – each day becoming better understood between us.

And still not a word had we exchanged! I feared to risk speech – the humiliation that would follow, if perchance I was mistaken.

I was again on the eve of resorting to the epistolary mode of communication – and had actually written the letter, intending to deliver it – not second-hand through the cochero, but, in propria persona, to the lady herself.

At each succeeding oraçion I watched for an opportunity; when the fair worshipper, passing out along with the crowd, might come within delivering distance.

Twice had I been disappointed. On the third time I had the chance, without taking advantage of it!

It was not needed. The wish I had expressed in my epistle was better worded by Mercedes herself. As she descended the steps on her way to the street, her lips came so close to my ear, that I was enabled to catch every syllable of that sweet whisper:

“En la Alameda. A seis horas!” (At six o’clock, in the Alameda!)