The Bee Hunters: A Tale of Adventure

"¡Halloa, caballeros!" cried the pulquero (innkeeper), thinking it necessary to interfere. "Peace! in the name of God or the devil! No quarrels in my house: if you wish for satisfaction, the street is free."

"The pulquero is right!" screamed Pablito. "Come, if you are a man!"

"Gladly!" cried Carlocho; and the two vaqueros rushed into the street.

As to the worthy pulquero, he stood at his door, his hands in the pockets of his calzoneras (loose trousers), and whistled a jarana (a dance tune), while expecting the fight.

Pablito and Carlocho wrapped the left arm in the zarapé for a shield, took off their hats and saluted with much affectation, drew their long knives from their girdles, and, without exchanging a word, stood on their guard with remarkable coolness.

In this kind of duel – the only one, by the by, known in Mexico – satisfaction consists in slashing the adversary in the face. A blow delivered below the girdle would be considered a piece of treachery unworthy of a true caballero.

The two opponents, firmly planted with legs apart, bodies inclined, and heads thrown back, watched each other fixedly, in order to forestall a movement, parry a blow, or inflict a wound. The rest of the vaqueros, with their delicate maize cigarettes in their mouths, looked on composedly, and applauded every adroit thrust or parry.

The fight was continued for some minutes, with equal success on either side, when Pablito, whose sight was most likely obfuscated by his copious potations, came to the parry a second too late, and felt the point of Carlocho's knife rip the skin of his face from chin to forehead.

"Bravo! Bravo!" exclaimed all the vaqueros at once. "Well hit!"

The combatants, flattered by this approbation, stepped away from each other, bowed to the spectators, sheathed their knives, saluted one another with exquisite courtesy, and having first shaken hands, went into the pulquería once more.

The vaqueros are a peculiar race of men, whose ways and manners are quite distinct from the customs known in Europe. Those of San Lucar may serve as a type. Born on the Indian frontiers they have contracted sanguinary habits, and their disregard of life is remarkable. Inveterate gamblers, the cards are never out of their hands; and play is a fruitful source of quarrels, in which the knife is constantly called into requisition. Careless of the future, little heedful of present trouble, and enduring physical suffering hardily, they look upon death with as much contempt as on life, and recoil before no danger.

These men – who often abandon their families in order to live a life of greater license among the savage hordes of the desert; who, in shear wantonness, spill the blood of their fellow creatures; who are implacable in their hate – these men are capable of ardent friendship, and of extraordinary devotedness and self-denial. Their character presents a curious mixture of good and evil, of unbridled vice and sterling qualities. They are at one and the same time idle, gamblers, quarrelsome, drunkards, ferocious, brave to rashness and devoted heart and soul to a friend, or the patron of their choice. From infancy blood runs like water from their hands during the period of the matanza del ganado (slaughtering the cattle); and this familiarity with the crimson stains hardens them to the sight of human gore. Lastly, their jokes are as coarse as their habits, the threat of using the knife on quite frivolous occasions being the most delicate and the most common.

While the vaqueros, reseated at the table in the pulquería, were pouring libations to their reconciliation, and drowning the remembrance of the petty incident in floods of pulque and mezcal (a coarse kind of brandy), a man entered, muffled in the folds of a thick cloak, and with the wide brim of his hat pulled over his eyes. Approaching the table without uttering a word, he cast a look of seeming indifference around, lighted a cigarette at the brazier, and struck three blows upon it with a large piastre he held between his fingers.

The noise, which appeared to be a signal, startled the three vaqueros. They dropped the noisy conversation they were engaged in, as if suddenly struck by an electric shock, and became as still as death. Pablito and Carlocho began to tremble, seeking all the while to discover the features of the new arrival under the folds of his cloak; while the verado turned his head on one side to hide his crafty smiles.

The stranger cast his half-consumed cigar into the brazier, and retired from the filthy room in the same silence in which he came.

An instant later, Pablito, who was stanching his bleeding cheek, and Carlocho, making a pretence of important business, quitted the pulquería. The verado glided along the wall to the door, and followed at their heels.

"Holloa!" muttered the pulquero, "Here are three pícaros (villains), who seem to be concocting some devil's job, in which more broken heads than duros (dollars) are to be gained. ¡Caray! That is their lookout."

The remaining vaqueros, completely absorbed in a game at monte, and bending over their cards, appeared scarcely to have noticed the departure of their comrades.

At some little distance from the pulquería the stranger looked back. The two vaqueros were walking close behind him, talking carelessly, as if they were two idlers strolling along. The verado was not to be seen.

The stranger went on his way again, after making a scarcely perceptible sign to the two men, and pursued a road which, in a gentle curve, gradually retired from the river, and led, little by little, into the fields. At the exit from the pueblo this road took a sharp angle, and narrowed suddenly into a path, which lost itself in the plain among many more.

Just at the bend in the road, a cavalier, trotting hurriedly in the direction of the presidio, passed close to the three men; but, immersed in their thoughts, neither stranger nor vaqueros took notice of him. As to the cavalier, he darted a rapid and piercing look at them, and gradually slackened his horse's speed, which he stopped altogether a few yards further on.

"God forgive me!" he said to himself; that is Don Fernando Carril, or else the devil in flesh and bone. That fool, Zapote, has missed him again, then! What business can he have out here, in company with those two bandits, who look like agents of Satan? May I never be Torribio Quiroga if I don't find out, and if I do not put myself on their traces.

Señor Don Torribio Quiroga was an individual of not more than thirty-five, with a rather stout figure, under the middle height. But to make up for it, the squareness of his shoulders, and thick-set limbs, gave unmistakable evidence of great muscular power. Little grey eyes, lively, and sparkling with malice and audacity, lit up a face which was perhaps somewhat vulgar. He was dressed in the costume of all Mexicans of a certain rank.

He dismounted, and looked about for somebody to hold his horse, but could see no one; for, at San Lucar, and especially in the new pueblo, it was almost a miracle to meet two persons passing through the streets at the same time. He stamped in anger, threw the reins over his arm, and led his horse to the pulquería whence the vaqueros had come, confiding him to the care of the landlord.

Having carefully completed this duty – for the Mexican's dearest friend is his horse – Don Torribio retraced his steps with the most minute precaution, like a man who wishes to see without himself being seen.

The vaqueros had gained considerably upon him, and disappeared behind a hillock of shifting sand just at the moment when he turned the angle of the lane: however, he soon saw them again as they were toiling up a steep and rough path leading to a clump of trees, which by chance or some caprice of nature had shot up among the arid sands.

Sure of finding them now, Don Torribio began to walk more slowly, and lit a cigar, to keep himself in countenance in case of surprise, or to prevent any casual suspicion of his intentions. Luckily, the vaqueros never looked back once, but entered the wood close upon the heels of the man recognised by Don Torribio as Don Fernando Carril.

When, in his turn, Don Torribio arrived at the margin of the wood, he took good care not to walk straight into it. He first made a slight détour to the right; then, bending down to the ground, he commenced crawling on hands and knees, taking special care to avoid any noise that might excite the attention of the vaqueros.

The sound of voices soon reached him. Gently raising his head, he perceived, in a small clearing close at hand, the figures of the three men, who had stopped, and were engaged in a lively conversation. He rose from the ground, and hid himself behind a maple tree.

Don Fernando Carril had dropped his cloak, leaning with his shoulders against a tree, and, with his legs crossed, he was listening with visible impatience to what Pablito was saying.

The hands of Don Fernando were small, and delicately gloved; his feet, showing the nobility of his blood by their diminutive size, were encased in varnished boots, – a luxury unheard of in these distant regions. His costume, of amazing richness, was absolutely identical in shape with that of the vaqueros. A diamond of immense value fastened the collar of his shirt; and his zarapé was worth more than five hundred piastres. For the present, we will conclude the portrait here.

Two years before our narrative commences, Don Fernando Carril had arrived at San Lucar, knowing nobody; and everyone had asked, Who is he? Where does he come from? Whence does he derive his riches? And where do his estates lie? Don Fernando bought a hacienda a few leagues from San Lucar. Under pretence of defending it against the Indians, he fortified it, surrounded it with palisades and a moat, and furnished it with two small pieces of cannon. In this way he had kept his doings secret, and curiosity at bay. Although he never opened his hacienda to receive a guest, he was himself received by the first inhabitants of San Lucar, whom he visited most assiduously, till suddenly, to the great amazement of all, he disappeared for several months.

The ladies missed their practice in smiles and ogling, the men their occupation of contriving adroit questions to entrap Don Fernando. Don Louis Pedrosa, whose post as governor gave him a right to be inquisitive, could not help feeling uneasy about the stranger; but, wearied with conjecture, he was obliged to trust to time, which, sooner or later, reveals all mysteries. Nothing more was known of the man who was standing in the clearing, listening to Pablito.

"Enough!" said this personage, interrupting Pablito, in a fit of passion; "You are a dog, and a dog's son."

"Señor!" exclaimed the latter.

"I feel inclined to crush you, wretch!"

"A threat! And to me!" shouted the vaquero white with fury, and unsheathing his knife.

Don Fernando seized the man's fist with his gloved hand, and gave it such a sudden and violent wrench, that the vaquero dropped his weapon with a groan.

"Down on your knees, and ask for pardon!" the don went on, hurling the wretch to the ground.

"No! I will die first!"

"Begone! You are a brute beast!"

The vaquero staggered as he rose; his eyes were bloodshot, his lips blue; his whole body trembled. He picked up his knife, and approached Don Fernando, who stood there with folded arms.

"It is true; yes, I am a brute beast; but, nevertheless, I am devoted to you. Forgive me, or kill me, but do not bid me begone."

"Go! I tell you."

"And you have no more to say to me?"

"It is my last word; vex me no more."

"Your last word to me? Then I go – to the devil!" And he raised his weapon to kill himself.

Don Fernando arrested the stroke. "I forgive you," said he: "but, if you still wish to remain in my service, be mute as a corpse."

The vaquero fell at his feet, and covered with kisses the hand extended to him. It was like a dog licking the hand of the master who has beaten him.

Carlocho had taken no part in this scene, but remained a calm and unmoved spectator.

"What charm has this mysterious stranger," muttered Don Torribio behind his maple, "to make himself beloved like this?"

After a short silence, Don Fernando again spoke.

"I know you are devoted to me. I have great confidence in your fidelity; but you are a drunkard, and drink is an evil counsellor."

"I will drink no more," replied the vaquero.

Don Fernando smiled in disdain.

"Drink, but do not drown your reason. Drunkenness such as yours lets fall words for which there is no remedy, – words more murderous than the dagger. It is not the master, it is the friend who speaks to you. Can I count on you both?"

"You can."

"I leave this place for a few days; you will remain in the neighbourhood. At a short distance from the pueblo is the Hacienda de las Norias de San Antonio; do you know it?"

"Who does not know Don Pedro de Luna?"

"Watch that hacienda carefully, both without and within. If anything extraordinary befalls Don Pedro or his daughter, Doña Hermosa, one of you will come and acquaint me with it. You know where to find me?"

The men bowed their heads.

"Will you execute all my orders, however incomprehensible, with promptitude and accuracy?"

"We swear so, master."

"Good! One word more; attach to yourselves as many vaqueros as you can; strive to gather together a body of men to be depended on. Do this without exciting suspicion; she never sleeps with both eyes closed. Stay! I remember! Put no faith in the verado; he is a traitor – a spy upon me, in the service of the Tigercat."

"Shall we kill him?" coolly asked Carlocho.

"It might be, prudent; only rid yourselves of him quietly."

The two vaqueros looked at each other furtively.

Don Fernando seemed not to remark what happened.

"Do you want money?" he asked.

"No, master; we have still some."

"Nevertheless, take this as well: better to have too much than too little."

He placed in the hands of Carlocho a long netted purse, across the meshes of which a goodly number of gold pieces glittered.

"Now, Pablito, my horse."

The vaquero led from the recesses of the wood a magnificent charger. Don Fernando vaulted into the saddle.

"Remember," said he, "prudence and fidelity; one indiscretion would cost you your lives."

He waved his hand to the vaqueros, gave his horse the spur, and rode off in the direction of the presidio. The two men resumed the road to the pueblo.

When they were a good way off, the brushwood at one corner of the clearing began to shake, and a human head slowly emerged, the face blanched with terror.

The head was succeeded by the body of the verado who had risen to his feet, his knife in one hand, a pistol in the other, and now looked about him with his hair standing on end.

"¡Canarios!" he cried in a low tone; "rid themselves of me quietly! We shall see! we shall see, ¡Santa Virgen del Pilar! What demons! Aha! I was right to listen."

"It is the only way to hear," said a mocking voice.

"Who goes there?" roared the verado, as he jumped to one side.

"A friend," replied Don Torribio, leaving his hiding place and advancing into the open.

"What! You, Señor Don Torribio Quiroga? You are welcome. Then you listened too?"

"¡Cuerpo de Cristo! Didn't I listen! I think I have profited by it, to get edifying news about Don Fernando."

"Since you overheard the conversation, what do you think of it?"

"This caballero seems to me a black villain enough; but we will thwart his infamous plans."

"God grant we may!" muttered the verado, with a sigh.

"And now, what are your own intentions?"

"Mine! I swear I do not know. I know nothing, except that my head swims. Did you hear? They want to rid themselves of me quietly! In my opinion, they are the greatest wretches in the prairie."

"Pooh! I have known them a long time; they give me very little uneasiness."

"And I, on the contrary, am very uneasy."

"What the devil! You are not dead yet!"

"¡Vive Dios! I am little better off; I am literally between death and the devil."

"How can you be afraid – you, the most daring hunter of the jaguar I know?"

"A jaguar is but a jaguar, after all; one can talk reason to him with a ball. But these two birbones (rascals), whom Don Fernando has maliciously set upon my trail, are veritable demons, without faith or law, who would bleed their own fathers for a small measure of pulque." ("To bleed" is the common Mexican expression for "to stab.")

"True; but time presses. For reasons with which I need not acquaint you, I take enormous interest in Don Pedro de Luna, and more in his lovely daughter. Don Fernando Carril, as we have just learnt, is concocting some infernal plot against this family. I mean to frustrate it. Will you assist me? Two men can do a great deal, if they work with a will."

"Do you propose a partnership with me, Don Torribio?"

"Call it what you will; but answer promptly."

"In that case, sincerity for sincerity, Don Torribio. This morning I would have refused your proposal: tonight I accept it; for I have done with soft-heartedness. My position is completely changed. Rid themselves of me quietly! ¡Vive Dios! I will have my revenge. I am yours, as my knife is to the sheath. I am yours, body and soul, on the word of a vaquero."

"I see we shall easily come to an understanding."

"Say, rather, we understand each other already."

"Good! But we must be cautious, if we wish to succeed: the game we are about to chase is wily. Do you know a lepero named Tonillo el Zapote?"

"Know Tonillo! He is my bosom friend."

"So much the better. This Tonillo is a resolute fellow, on whom one can fearlessly depend."

"That is holy truth. Moreover, he is a caballero of excellent principle."

"He is: find him out, and bring him one hour after sunset to the Callejou de las Minas" (the pass of the mines).

"It shall be done; I understand perfectly. We will be there."

"And then, we three will arrange our counterplot."

"Yes; and set your heart at rest. We will find a way to deliver you from this man, who wishes to rid himself of me quietly."

"That seems to lie heavily on your mind."

"¡Caray! Just put yourself in my place. After all, the longest liver will see. Don Fernando has not got quite so far with me as he fancies."

"Then you will bring Tonillo?"

"Were I to bring him by force, we would both be there."

"Now, we have nothing more to do than to go about our separate affairs."

"Which road do you take?"

"I am going direct to the hacienda of Don Pedro."

"Listen to me, Don Torribio: do not broach this matter to him."

"What is your reason for saying so, verado?"

"Because Don Pedro, excellent man and perfect caballero as he is, has old-fashioned ideas, and would probably attempt to dissuade you from your plan."

"Perhaps you may be right; he had better know nothing of the service I wish to render him."

"It will be better. Now Don Torribio, good-bye till evening."

"Good-bye; and good luck!"

The two men separated. Don Torribio Quiroga ran hastily down the road leading to the pueblo, to regain his horse from the pulquero; while the verado, whose horse had been hidden somewhere about, jumped into the saddle, and galloped off in a fury still muttering between his teeth:

"Rid themselves of me quietly! Was there ever such an idea? But we shall see. ¡Mil rayos!" (a thousand thunders).

CHAPTER IX

DOÑA HERMOSA

Stoneheart was not mistaken in declaring that the dust, rising far away in the desert, was caused by the servants of the hacienda; in fact, the hunter had scarcely left the persons he was guiding, when the cloud of sand was blown away by the breeze, disclosing a numerous party of vaqueros and peones, well armed, who were approaching at the top of their speed.

Two horses' length in front galloped Don Estevan Diaz, chiding his companions, and urging them to increase their pace.

The two parties soon met, and mingled with each other.

Estevan Diaz, as Don Pedro had foreseen, had grown anxious at his master's lengthened absence. Fearing lest some accident might have occurred, he had assembled all the most resolute men belonging to the hacienda, and placing himself at their head, commenced his search at once, scouring the wilderness in all directions.

But had it not been for the lucky chance which led to the meeting with Stoneheart, in the very moment when the strength and courage of the little party were oozing away together, it is probable that the search would have been without result, and another mournful and horrible tragedy registered in the annals of the prairies.

The joy of Don Estevan and his party was great at recognising those whom they had scarcely hoped to see again, and the whole company gaily took the road to the hacienda, where they arrived in safety a couple of hours later.

Doña Hermosa retired to her apartment as soon as she had dismounted, excusing herself on account of the fatigue she had endured.

She reached her cool maiden chamber, which looked so calm and pleasant, cast a glance of delight at the cherished appurtenances, and then threw herself with a feeling of instinctive gratitude, at the knees of the Virgin, whose image, crowned with flowers, was placed in a corner of the chamber, and seemed to watch over her.

Her prayer addressed to the Virgin was long, very long. For more than an hour she remained on her knees, murmuring words which none save God could hear.

At last she rose, slowly, and as it were with reluctance, made a final sign of the cross, and, traversing the room, cast herself on a couch, where she nestled in a flood of drapery, like the Bengali in its bed of moss.

Then she gave herself up to thought.

What power could thus profoundly occupy the mind, hitherto so gay and cheerful, of this young creature, whose life from infancy had been one unbroken succession of gentle joys, – for whom the sky had had no cloud, the past no regrets, and the future no apprehensions Why did she frown so heavily, tracing, on her pure forehead, lines at first hardly perceptible, but deepening with her deepening thoughts?

None could tell. Hermosa herself could not, perhaps, have given an explanation.

This was the reason: without accounting to herself for the change she was undergoing, Hermosa awoke as from a long slumber; her heart beat more quickly, her blood coursed more rapidly in her veins, a flood of unknown thoughts rushed from her heart to her brain, making it whirl. In one word, the girl felt she had become a woman.

A vague uneasiness without apparent cause, a feverish irritability, agitated her by turns; sometimes a stifled sob would rend her bosom, and a burning tear show like a pearl on her eyelashes; then her purple lips would part under the influence of a charming smile, the reflection of thoughts she could not define, beseeching her to drive them away, and return to the calm and heedless joys she was losing forever.

"Yes!" she cried suddenly, bounding from her couch with the grace of a startled fawn; "Yes: I will discover who he is."

Hermosa had involuntarily allowed the key of the riddle to escape her. Possessed by the spirit whose voice was evoking her inward agitation, she loved – or at least Love was on the point of revealing himself to her.

Scarcely had she uttered the words we have reported, than she blushed deeply, and, urged by a charming impulse of maiden modesty, ran to draw before the image of the Virgin the curtain used to conceal it.

The Virgin, the habitual confidante of the girl, was not to know the secrets of the woman. Full of holy fervour, Hermosa had immediately seized upon this delicate distinction; perhaps she mistrusted herself; perhaps the feeling which had been so suddenly and violently awakened in her heart did not seem pure enough to be confided, with all its longings and desires, to her at whose feet she had hitherto deposited all her hopes and aspirations.