The Bandolero: or, A Marriage among the Mountains

I spoke with a serious air, and in a confidential tone – my confidence designed to tempt the cupidity of the brigand.

It was not misplaced. It produced the effect intended.

“Bueno!” replied he, with an assenting movement of the head; “It’s only a step from here,” he continued in a stage whisper. “Our captain thinks himself safe, because nobody – except one of ourselves – could have brought you over the quebrada. Nos vamos! In twenty minutes time you will see your Mercedes.”

My impatience to be off hindered me from questioning the guide about his last speech; though it struck me as singular, he should know aught of my relations with the captive of Carrasco. I had forgotten that the robber-chief had shouted across the chasm, loud enough to be heard by our prisoner.

“Forward!” was my hurried response, “Guide me to her, and you may make your own terms about money!”

What cared I for the vile dross, of which I had ten thousand dollars in my keeping? True, it was not my own. It belonged to Don Eusebio Villa-Señor. But had I not been intrusted with it for the ransom of his daughters? And was this not the way in which I was employing it?

The Mexican seemed to comprehend me, and with a clearness that left nothing misunderstood. Willingly he led the way; and with equal willingness was he followed by myself and comrades.

Our journey proved but a short one. After climbing a rocky ridge, we came within sight of a forest-covered tract – lying just under the line of the snow.

The guide pointed to it – saying that there we should find the man we were in search of. There was a rancho among the pines. On reaching it, we might make sure of seeing Carrasco!

This rancho was the “head-quarters” of the cuadrilla– the cabin on the cliff serving as a sort of outlying post, to be used only in cases of close pursuit. The salteadores had but halted there, to wait for the morning light – the more safely to make the passage of the swing bridge.

Their real rendezvous was the rancho– a large house in the heart of the pine-forest, where the renegade assured us we would find his chief, his comrades, and their captives.

“Lead on!” I cried, roused to renewed energy at thought of the last. “A hundred pesos for every minute spared. On! on!”

Without another word the Mexican struck off among the trees, the sergeant treading close upon his tracks.

It was now broad daylight; but in five minutes after we were again in twilight darkness.

We had entered the pine-forest, and were travelling among trees whose stems stood thickly around us, and whose leafy boughs, interlocking overhead, formed an umbrageous canopy scarcely penetrable by the sun.

The path led labyrinthine through the close-standing trunks, and still more deviously among those that had fallen.

Properly speaking there was no path; for our guide was conducting us by a route different from that usually taken by the salteadores. This was to secure us against the chance of an ambuscade.

Unless the robbers had taken the precaution to throw out sentinels, there was not much danger of our approach being perceived; and this their ci-devant comrade assured us was never done. He was confident that no picket would be placed: the salteadores considering themselves safe, after having crossed the quebrada.

Notwithstanding his assurance, we advanced with caution. It was not due to me – too excited to care – but to the sergeant.

The latter kept close to the traitor, holding a cocked pistol to his ear – with the determination to shoot him down, should he show the slightest sign of a second treason!

The stage-driver betrayed no such concern. Better acquainted with Mexican morals, he had full confidence in the fidelity of our guide; who had but one motive for being false, and two thousand for proving true.

“Let him alone!” he muttered to the suspicious sergeant. “Leave him to take his own way. I’ll go his bail for bringin’ us out in the right place. If thar be any fluke, it won’t be his fault. So long as he meets nobody to promise more than two thousand he’ll be true; an’ that bid ain’t like to be riz ’mong these here mountings. Leave the skunk to himself. He’ll take us whar we kin trap Carrasco.”

The conjecture of Sam Brown proved but partially true; though the renegade was not responsible for any part of its failure.

He did all in his power to earn the reward promised him, and in the end was paid it. He had only stipulated to take me into the presence of the robber-chief; and to the letter was this stipulation carried out.

Through his agency I was brought face to face with Torreano Carrasco, and my comrades hand to hand with his cuadrilla of salteadores.

Reader! I forbear to harrow your heart with a description of the conflict that followed. It was too sanguinary to be told to your gentle ear, as it is too sad a souvenir, even for my remembrance.

Suffice it to say, that one-third of the faithful followers who accompanied me in that expedition, slept their last sleep on the cold sides of Ixticihuatl – the dark pines singing over them their eternal requiem – that more than two-thirds of our outlawed antagonists were slain at the same time; and that the rest – including their chief, – contrived to make their escape across the mountain.

I cared not so much for that, so long as Mercedes remained safe – and to me. She did so, and I was satisfied.

The bandoleros, taken by surprise, had no time either to conceal their captives, or hurry them out of the way. Each had enough to do in providing for his own safety; and at the very first rush into the rancho Mercedes became mine!

As she lay panting upon my breast, I felt like one who has long been in chase of some beautiful bird – fearing by a too close contact to ruffle its rich plumage – at length, enfolding it in his embrace, in the full faith of having a treasure from which he will never more be called upon to part!

It was the first time I had holden her in my arms – the first of our exchanging speech – and yet it seemed to both of us like the renewal of an old love, by some sinister chance long interrupted!

We talked, as if years had sanctified our affection; though a love like ours needs scarce an hour to carry it to the spring-tide of passion.

On the spot I called her Mercedes —my Mercedes; while she in return gave me the endearing title of “querido!”

It was no longer “Querido Francisco!”

It cast no shadow over my joy, that Francisco survived that terrible night; and, along with his Dolores, lived to complete the marriage commenced among the mountains, and so ruthlessly interrupted.

I had the pleasure of being present at the crowning scene of the ceremony. It came off in the Capital – in the quiet little church of the Capuchins – where Don Eusebio, instead of insisting upon his daughter becoming una novia del Cristo, gave his consent to her being the bride of Francisco Moreno.

The End