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“Be Japers! it wudn’t be much worse than the mate Owld Duffer sits afore us. It gives me the bellyache ivery time I ate it.”
The conversation was here interrupted by the opening of the chamber door; which was done without knocking. A slatternly servant – whose sex it would have been difficult to determine from outward indices – appeared in the doorway, with a basket of palm sinnet held extended at the termination of a long sinewy arm.
“Fwhat is it, Gertrude?” asked Phelim, who, from some previous information, appeared to be acquainted with the feminine character of the intruder.
“A shentlemans prot this.”
“A gentleman! Who, Gertrude?”
“Not know, mein herr; he wash a stranger shentlemans.”
“Brought by a gentleman. Who can he be? See what it in, Phelim.”
Phelim undid the fastenings of the lid, and exposed the interior of the basket. It was one of considerable bulk: since inside were discovered several bottles, apparently containing wines and cordials, packed among a paraphernalia of sweetmeats, and other delicacies – both of the confectionery and the kitchen. There was no note accompanying the present – not even a direction – but the trim and elegant style in which it was done up, proved that it had proceeded from the hands of a lady.
Maurice turned over the various articles, examining each, as Phelim supposed, to take note of its value. Little was he thinking of this, while searching for the “invoice.”
There proved to be none – not a scrap of paper – not so much as a card!
The generosity of the supply – well-timed as it was – bespoke the donor to be some person in affluent circumstances. Who could it be?
As Maurice reflected, a fair image came uppermost in his mind; which he could not help connecting with that of his unknown benefactor. Could it be Louise Poindexter?
In spite of certain improbabilities, he was fain to believe it might; and, so long as the belief lasted, his heart was quivering with a sweet beatitude.
As he continued to reflect, the improbabilities appeared too strong for this pleasant supposition; his faith became overturned; and there remained only a vague unsubstantial hope.
“A gintleman lift it,” spoke the Connemara man, in semi-soliloquy. “A gintleman, she sez; a kind gintleman, I say! Who div yez think he was, masther?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea; unless it may have been some of the officers of the Port; though I could hardly expect one of them to think of me in this fashion.”
“Nayther yez need. It wasn’t wan av them. No officer, or gintleman ayther, phut them things in the basket.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Pwhy div I think it! Och, masther! is it yerself to ask the quistyun? Isn’t there the smell av swate fingers about it? Jist look at the nate way them papers is tied up. That purty kreel was niver packed by the hand av a man. It was done by a wuman; and I’ll warrant a raal lady at that.”
“Nonsense, Phelim! I know no lady who should take so much interest in me.”
“Aw, murdher! What a thumpin’ big fib! I know won that shud. It wud be black ungratytude av she didn’t – afther what yez did for her. Didn’t yez save her life into the bargain?”
“Of whom are you speaking?”
“Now, don’t be desateful, masther. Yez know that I mane the purty crayther that come to the hut ridin’ Spotty that you presinted her, widout resavin’ a dollar for the mare. If it wasn’t her that sint ye this hamper, thin Phaylim Onale is the biggest numskull that was iver born about Ballyballagh. Be the Vargin, masther, speakin’ of the owld place phuts me in mind of its paple. Pwhat wud the blue-eyed colleen say, if she knew yez were in such danger heeur?”
“Danger! it’s all over. The doctor has said so; and that I may go out of doors in a week from this time. Don’t distress yourself about that.”
“Troth, masther, yez be only talkin’. That isn’t the danger I was drhamin’ av. Yez know will enough what I mane. Maybe yez have resaved a wound from bright eyes, worse than that from lid bullets. Or, maybe, somebody ilse has; an that’s why ye’ve had the things sint ye.”
“You’re all wrong, Phelim. The thing must have come from the Fort; but whether it did, or not, there’s no reason why we should stand upon ceremony with its contents. So, here goes to make trial of them!”
Notwithstanding the apparent relish with which the invalid partook of the products – both of collar and cuisine – while eating and drinking, his thoughts were occupied with a still more agreeable theme; with a string of dreamy conjectures, as to whom he was indebted for the princely present.
Could it be the young Creole – the cousin of his direst enemy as well as his reputed sweetheart?
The thing appeared improbable.
If not she, who else could it be?
The mustanger would have given a horse – a whole drove – to have been assured that Louise Poindexter was the provider of that luxurious refection.
Two days elapsed, and the donor still remained unknown.
Then the invalid was once more agreeably surprised, by a second present – very similar to the first – another basket, containing other bottles, and crammed with fresh “confections.”
The Bavarian wench was again questioned; but with no better result. A “shentlemans” had “prot” it – the same “stranger shentlemans” as before. She could only add that “the shentlemans” was very “Schwartz,” wore a glazed hat, and came to the tavern mounted upon a mule.
Maurice did not appear to be gratified with this description of the unknown donor; though no one – not even Phelim – was made the confidant of his thoughts.
In two days afterwards they were toned down to their former sobriety – on the receipt of a third basket, “prot by the Schwartz gentleman” in the glazed hat, who came mounted upon a mule.
The change could not be explained by the belongings in the basket – almost the counterpart of what had been sent before. It might be accounted for by the contents of a billet doux[173 - billet doux – a love letter (French)], that accompanied the gift – attached by a ribbon to the wickerwork of palm-sinnet.
“’Tis only Isidora!” muttered the mustanger, as he glanced at the superscription upon the note.
Then opening it with an air of indifference, he read: —
+++“Querido Señor!
“Soy quedando por una semana en la casa del tío Silvio. De questra desfortuna he oído – también que V. está mal ciudado en la fonda. He mandado algunas cositas. Sea graciosa usarlos, como una chiquitita memoria del servicio grande de que vuestra deudor estoy. En la silla soy escribando, con las espuelas preparadas sacar sangre de las ijadas del mio cavallo. En un momento más, partirá por el Río Grande.
“Bienhichor – de mi vida Salvador – y de que a una mujer esa mas querida, la honra – adiós – adiós!
“Isidora Covarubio De Los Llanos.
“Al Señor Don Mauricio Gerald.”
Literally translated, and in the idiom of the Spanish language, the note ran thus: —
“Dear Sir, – I have been staying for a week at the house of Uncle Silvio. Of your mischance I have heard – also, that you are indifferently cared for at the hotel. I have sent you some little things. Be good enough to make use of them, as a slight souvenir of the great service for which I am your debtor. I write in the saddle, with my spurs ready to draw blood from the flanks of my horse. In another moment I am off for the Rio Grande!
“Benefactor – preserver of my life – of what to a woman is dearer – my honour – adieu! adieu!
“Isidora Covarubio De Los Llanos.”
“Thanks – thanks, sweet Isidora!” muttered the mustanger, as he refolded the note, and threw it carelessly upon the coverlet of his couch. “Ever grateful – considerate – kind! But for Louise Poindexter, I might have loved you!”
Chapter 23
Vows of Vengeance
Calhoun, chafing in his chamber, was not the object of such assiduous solicitude. Notwithstanding the luxurious appointments that surrounded him, he could not comfort himself with the reflection: that he was cared for by living creature. Truly selfish in his own heart, he had no faith in friendships; and while confined to his couch – not without some fears that it might be his death-bed – he experienced the misery of a man believing that no human being cared a straw whether he should live or die.
Any sympathy shown to him, was upon the score of relationship. It could scarce have been otherwise. His conduct towards his cousins had not been such as to secure their esteem; while his uncle, the proud Woodley Poindexter, felt towards him something akin to aversion, mingled with a subdued fear.
It is true that this feeling was only of recent origin; and rose out of certain relations that existed between uncle and nephew. As already hinted, they stood to one another in the relationship of debtor and creditor – or mortgagor and mortgagee – the nephew being the latter. To such an extent had this indebtedness been carried, that Cassius Calhoun was in effect the real owner of Casa del Corvo; and could at any moment have proclaimed himself its master.
Conscious of his power, he had of late been using it to effect a particular purpose: that is, the securing for his wife, the woman he had long fiercely loved – his cousin Louise. He had come to know that he stood but little chance of obtaining her consent: for she had taken but slight pains to conceal her indifference to his suit. Trusting to the peculiar influence established over her father, he had determined on taking no slight denial.
These circumstances considered, it was not strange that the ex-officer of volunteers, when stretched upon a sick bed, received less sympathy from his relatives than might otherwise have been extended to him.
While dreading, death – which for a length of time he actually did – he had become a little more amiable to those around him. The agreeable mood, however, was of short continuance; and, once assured of recovery, all the natural savageness of his disposition was restored, along with the additional bitterness arising from his recent discomfiture.
It had been the pride of his life to exhibit himself as a successful bully – the master of every crowd that might gather around him. He could no longer claim this credit in Texas; and the thought harrowed his heart to its very core.
To figure as a defeated man before all the women of the settlement – above all in the eyes of her he adored, defeated by one whom he suspected of being his rival in her affections – a more nameless adventurer – was too much to be endured with equanimity. Even an ordinary man would have been pained by the infliction. Calhoun writhed under it.
He had no idea of enduring it, as an ordinary man would have done. If he could not escape from the disgrace, he was determined to revenge himself upon its author; and as soon as he had recovered from the apprehensions entertained about the safety of his life, he commenced reflecting upon this very subject.
Maurice, the mustanger, must die! If not by his (Calhoun’s) own hand, then by the hand of another, if such an one was to be found in the settlement. There could not be much difficulty in procuring a confederate. There are bravoes[174 - bravoes – brave men (Spanish)] upon the broad prairies of Texas, as well as within the walls of Italian cities. Alas! there is no spot upon earth where gold cannot command the steel of the assassin.
Calhoun possessed gold – more than sufficient for such a purpose; and to such purpose did he determine upon devoting at least a portion of it.
In the solitude of his sick chamber he set about maturing his plans; which comprehended the assassination of the mustanger. He did not purpose doing the deed himself. His late defeat had rendered him fearful of chancing a second encounter with the same adversary – even under the advantageous circumstances of a surprise. He had become too much encowardised to play the assassin. He wanted an accomplice – an arm to strike for him. Where was he to find it?
Unluckily he knew, or fancied he knew, the very man. There was a Mexican at the time making abode in the village – like Maurice himself – a mustanger; but one of those with whom the young Irishman had shown a disinclination to associate.
As a general rule, the men of this peculiar calling are amongst the greatest reprobates, who have their home in the land of the “Lone Star.” By birth and breed they are mostly Mexicans, or mongrel Indians; though, not unfrequently, a Frenchman, or American, finds it a congenial calling. They are usually the outcasts of civilised society – oftener its outlaws – who, in the excitement of the chase, and its concomitant dangers, find, perhaps, some sort of salvo[175 - salvo – salvation (Spanish)] for a conscience that has been severely tried.
While dwelling within the settlements, these men are not unfrequently the pests of the society that surrounds them – ever engaged in broil and debauch; and when abroad in the exercise of their calling, they are not always to be encountered with safety. More than once is it recorded in the history of Texas how a company of mustangers has, for the nonce, converted itself into a band of cuadrilla[176 - cuadrilla – a gang or band (Spanish)] of salteadores[177 - salteadores – robbers (Spanish)]; or, disguised as Indians, levied black mail upon the train of the prairie traveller.
One of this kidney was the individual who had become recalled to the memory of Cassius Calhoun. The latter remembered having met the man in the bar-room of the hotel; upon several occasions, but more especially on the night of the duel. He remembered that he had been one of those who had carried him home on the stretcher; and from some extravagant expressions he had made use of, when speaking of his antagonist, Calhoun had drawn the deduction, that the Mexican was no friend to Maurice the mustanger.
Since then he had learnt that he was Maurice’s deadliest enemy – himself excepted.
With these data to proceed upon the ex-captain had called the Mexican to his counsels, and the two were often closeted together in the chamber of the invalid.
There was nothing in all this to excite suspicion – even had Calhoun cared for that. His visitor was a dealer in horses and horned cattle. Some transaction in horseflesh might be going on between them. So any one would have supposed. And so for a time thought the Mexican himself: for in their first interview, but little other business was transacted between them. The astute Mississippian knew better than to declare his ultimate designs to a stranger; who, after completing an advantageous horse-trade, was well supplied with whatever he chose to drink, and cunningly cross-questioned as to the relations in which he stood towards Maurice the mustanger.
In that first interview, the ex-officer volunteers learnt enough, to know that he might depend upon his man for any service he might require – even to the committal of murder.
The Mexican made no secret of his heartfelt hostility to the young mustanger. He did not declare the exact cause of it; but Calhoun could guess, by certain innuendos introduced during the conversation, that it was the same as that by which he was himself actuated – the same to which may be traced almost every quarrel that has occurred among men, from Troy to Texas – a woman!
The Helen[178 - Helen – in Greek mythology, an extremely beautiful woman, the daughter of Zeus, and the cause of the Trojan War] in this case appeared to be some dark-eyed donçella dwelling upon the Rio Grande, where Maurice had been in the habit of making an occasional visit, in whose eyes he had found favour, to the disadvantage of her own conpaisano.
The Mexican did not give the name; and Calhoun, as he listened to his explanations, only hoped in his heart that the damsel who had slighted him might have won the heart of his rival.
During his days of convalescence, several interviews had taken place between the ex-captain and the intended accomplice in his purposes of vengeance – enough, one might suppose, to have rendered them complete.
Whether they were so, or not, and what the nature of their hellish designs, were things known only to the brace of kindred confederates. The outside world but knew that Captain Cassius Calhoun and Miguel Diaz – known by the nickname “El Coyote,” appeared to have taken a fancy for keeping each other’s company; while the more respectable portion of it wondered at such an ill-starred association.
Chapter 24
On the Azotea
There are no sluggards on a Texan plantation. The daybreak begins the day; and the bell, conch, or cow-horn, that summons the dark-skinned proletarians to their toil, is alike the signal for their master to forsake his more luxurious couch.
Such was the custom of Casa del Corvo under its original owners: and the fashion was followed by the family of the American planter – not from any idea of precedent, but simply in obedience to the suggestions of Nature. In a climate of almost perpetual spring, the sweet matutinal moments are not to be wasted in sleep. The siesta[179 - siesta – rest or sleep in the afternoon, when it is very hot outside] belongs to the hours of noon; when all nature appears to shrink under the smiles of the solar luminary – as if surfeited with their superabundance.
On his reappearance at morn the sun is greeted with renewed joy. Then do the tropical birds spread their resplendent plumage – the flowers their dew-besprinkled petals – to receive his fervent kisses. All nature again seems glad, to acknowledge him as its god.
Resplendent as any bird that flutters among the foliage of south-western Texas – fair as any flower that blooms within it – gladdest was she who appeared upon the housetop of Casa del Corvo.
Aurora herself, rising from her roseate couch, looked not fresher than the young Creole, as she stood contemplating the curtains of that very couch, from which a Texan sun was slowly uplifting his globe of burning gold.
She was standing upon the edge of the azotea that fronted towards the east; her white hand resting upon the copestone of the parapet still wet with the dews of the night, under her eyes was the garden, enclosed within a curve of the river; beyond the bluff formed by the opposite bank; and further still, the wide-spreading plateau of the prairie.
Was she looking at a landscape, that could scarce fail to challenge admiration? No.
Equally was she unconscious of the ascending sun; though, like some fair pagan, did she appear to be in prayer at its apprising!
Listened she to the voices of the birds, from garden and grove swelling harmoniously around her?
On the contrary, her ear was not bent to catch any sound, nor her eye intent upon any object. Her glance was wandering, as if her thoughts went not with it, but were dwelling upon some theme, neither present nor near.
In contrast with the cheerful brightness of the sky, there was a shadow upon her brow; despite the joyous warbling of the birds, there was the sign of sadness on her cheek.
She was alone. There was no one to take note of this melancholy mood, nor inquire into its cause.
The cause was declared in a few low murmured words, that fell, as if involuntarily, from her lips.
“He may be dangerously wounded – perhaps even to death?”
Who was the object of this solicitude so hypothetically expressed?
The invalid that lay below, almost under her feet, in a chamber of the hacienda – her cousin Cassius Calhoun?
It could scarce be he. The doctor had the day before pronounced him out of danger, and on the way to quick recovery. Any one listening to her soliloquy – after a time continued in the same sad tone – would have been convinced it was not he.
“I may not send to inquire. I dare not even ask after him. I fear to trust any of our people. He may be in some poor place – perhaps uncourteously treated – perhaps neglected? Would that I could convey to him a message – something more – without any one being the wiser! I wonder what has become of Zeb Stump?”
As if some instinct whispered her, that there was a possibility of Zeb making his appearance, she turned her eyes towards the plain on the opposite side of the river – where a road led up and down. It was the common highway between Fort Inge and the plantations on the lower Leona. It traversed the prairie at some distance from the river bank; approaching it only at one point, where the channel curved in to the base of the bluffs. A reach of the road, of half a mile in length, was visible in the direction of the Fort; as also a cross-path that led to a ford; thence running on to the hacienda. In the opposite direction – down the stream – the view was open for a like length, until the chapparal on both sides closing in, terminated the savanna.
The young lady scanned the road leading towards Fort Inge. Zeb Stump should come that way. He was not in sight; nor was any one else.
She could not feel disappointment. She had no reason to expect him. She had but raised her eyes in obedience to an instinct.
Something more than instinct caused her, after a time, to turn round, and scrutinise the plain in the opposite quarter.
