The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales

I knew that shod horses were rarely or never found in the grazing cavallada; and therefore the large troop that had preceded me through the forest opening, must have had saddles upon their backs, and men bestriding them.

I had gone a good way into the timber before arriving at this conclusion.

I need not say that it affected my further advance. The horsemen who had trodden the track before me must be enemies; they could not be friends. I was now full three miles from the main road – leading from Vera Cruz to Jalapa – and I knew that no troop of our cavalry had left it.

Besides, the shod-tracks I saw were those of mustangs, or Mexican horses – so much smaller in their circumference than those of the American horse, that I could note the difference, even in the glance allowed by the rapidity of my onward gallop.

Mexican cavalry must have passed over the ground, perhaps in retreat from the field of Cerro Gordo; but even so, they might not have proceeded far, since they could have but little fear of our following them in that crosscountry direction.

I was beginning to repent of my recklessness. Already my bridle-rein was, by a half-mechanical effort on my part, perceptibly becoming tighter along the neck of my steed, when the chase that had lured me so far, presented an aspect to seduce me still further.

I had been observing for some time that the mustang, although without a bridle in its mouth, carried one upon the pommel of its saddle. The reins were hanging in a loose coil over the “horn.”

This half explained to me why the animal had been going across country without a rider. Had it been bridled, I should have concluded that it had left its owner upon the field of Cerro Gordo, or parted with him in the hot pursuit succeeding that action.

But a bridle suspended from the saddle-bow – with bit, curb, and head-piece attached – forbade the conjecture; at the same time suggesting another: that the mustang must have made its escape from some temporary halting-place, where, like our own horses at Corral Falso, it had been unbridled to “bait.”

It was not this conjecture that influenced me to continue the chase; but the fact that the bridle-reins, suspended over the saddle-horn, had begun to trail among the animal’s feet, and promised, ere long, to prove an impediment to its flight. It was my observation of this that lured me on.

Chance, not prowess, was likely to give me the victory. But what mattered it, so long as there would be no one to witness the event?

My comrades would not know how I had effected the capture; and, instead of returning to them empty-handed – crest-fallen with chagrin – I should ride back in triumph; and so should Moro, the steel-grey mustang following at his heels.

Inspired by this pleasant anticipation, I once more struck the spur into the flank of my brave steed, which needed not such prompting. It was merely mechanical. Perhaps Moro knew as much, and forgave me for the unnecessary infliction.

Quite unnecessary, as it proved; for, at the very instant I was causing it, the riderless mustang, just as I had been wishing and expecting, became entangled in its trailing bridle, and rolled headlong upon the grass.

Before it could recover its legs, Moro was snorting by its side; and Moro’s rider, having forsaken his own steed, had looped the lazo around its neck, and secured it as a captive.

I was not left much time to congratulate myself on my good luck; for, in truth, it was luck, and only that, to which I had been indebted for the capture of the mustang.

Having secured the animal, as I supposed to a certainty, I was proceeding to re-insert its own bit between its teeth, in order the more easily to lead it along with me on the return journey to Corral Falso.

I was even full of self-gratulation – chuckling over the conquest I had accomplished – anticipating one of those pleasant little triumphs one feels on having performed a feat, however trifling, under the eyes of one’s everyday associates.

I believed I should have nothing more to do than attach the captured mustang to the ring of my saddle-tree, remount my own steed, and ride back to the “false enclosure.”

The “cup” was at my lips; I had forgotten the “slip.”

Literally may I say the “slip,” though the word may need explanation.

I was returning towards my own steed, with the intention of once more regaining my saddle, and riding back in the direction I had come, when a swishing noise fell upon my ear, that caused the blood to curdle within my veins, as if the sound so heard had been the summons of the last trumpet.

The wild cry that succeeded this sound added little to its terrors; for I knew that one was but the prelude to the other.

The first was to me a noise well known and easily identified. It was the whistling of lazos projected through the air. The second was but the triumphant cheer that accompanied their projection.

I looked up in dismay, which instantly became despair. It was not causeless. The air above me was a network of ropes, each with a running noose at its end.

I might not have observed their intricate coiling, nor perhaps did I at the moment. I was not allowed much time for minute observation. Almost in the same instant that the “swishing” sounded in my ears, I felt my body encircled by closing cords; and the next moment I was jerked from my feet, and flung with violence upon my back.

Story 1, Chapter XX

A Cuadrilla of Salteadores

Sudden as it was, and unexpected, there was no mystery in my capture. I had fallen into the hands of Mexicans, and, of course, enemies.

It was a party of horsemen, about forty in number – irregularly armed, but all armed one way or another. They must have seen me as I advanced up the long opening among the trees, though I had no idea that I had been observed by human eye.

Perhaps they had not seen me, but only received warning of my approach by hearing the hoof-strokes of my horse; or they might have seen the steed I was in pursuit of, before mine had made its appearance in the avenue.

At all events, they had been made aware of my coming in some way, and had thrown themselves into an ambush on both sides of the path.

Improbable as it might appear, I could not help fancying that the grey mustang had been sent forth as a “stool pigeon,” so well had the creature succeeded in decoying me into their midst.

I scrambled over the ground, and at length managed to recover my legs. On looking up, I saw that I was surrounded; and felt, moreover, that, although permitted to regain my feet, I was still tightly held in the loops of numerous lazos, which encircled my neck, arms, waist, and limbs.

Any attempt to get away from such multifarious fastenings would have been worse than idle, and could only result in my being plucked off my feet again, and perhaps treated with greater rudeness than before.

Knowing this, I surrendered without making the least movement or resistance.

It was a motley group in whose midst I stood: in this respect equalling a party of Guy Fawkes mimers. No two were dressed exactly alike, though there was a general similitude of costume among them, especially in the particular articles of broad-brimmed hats, and wide-legged trowsers of velveteen.

Some of them had serapés hanging scarf-like over their shoulders; but all were armed with long knives (machetés), and lances; I could also see short guns (escopetas) strapped along the sides of their saddles.

“A guerilla,” I muttered to myself, thinking I had fallen among a hand of guerilleros.

I was soon undeceived, and found I had not been so fortunate. The ruffian countenances of my captors – as soon as I had time to scrutinise them more closely – the coarse jests and ribald language passing between them, along with some other professional peculiarities – told me that, instead of a band of partisans, I was in the clutches of a cuadrilla of salteadores– true robbers of the road!

My observation of the fact was not calculated to tranquillise my spirits, but the contrary. As a general rule, the bandits of Mexico are not bloodthirsty. If the purse be freely delivered up to them, they have no object in ill-treating the person of their captives. It is only when the latter show ill-humour, or attempt resistance, that their lives are in danger.

At that time, however, with the country in a state of active war – with a hated enemy marching victorious along its roads – some of the outlawed chiefs had become inspired with a sort of sham patriotism – in most instances for the purpose of being left free to plunder, or else with the design of obtaining pardon for past offences. Though occasionally acting as guerilleros, and attacking the wagon trains of the American army, their patriotism was of a very ambiguous order; and not unfrequently were their own countrymen the victims of their despoiling propensities.

In one respect only did this patriotism display itself with partiality, and that was in the ferocity with which they treated such American prisoners as had the misfortune to fall into their hands. Horrible mutilations were common – with all the vindictive modes of punishment known to the lex talionis.

I could easily believe, while regarding the ferocious faces around me, that I was in great danger of some fearful fate: perhaps to be drawn and quartered; perhaps burnt alive; perhaps – I knew not what – I could only conjecture something terrible.

After I had been pulled about for some minutes, and rudely abused by several of the band, a man made his appearance in their midst, who seemed to exert over the others some species of authority. The word “capitan,” pronounced by several as he came forward, told me that he was the chief of the robbers; and his appearance entitled him to the distinction.

He was a man of large frame, and swarthy complexion – heavily bearded and moustached. His dress was splendid in the extreme – being a full suit of ranchero costume, with all its ornamental trimming of gold lace, bell-buttons, and needlework embroidery.

The countenance of this man might have been handsome, but for an expression of ferocity that pervaded it; and this was so marked as at once to impress the beholder with the belief that it was the face of a fiend rather than of a human being.

A row of white teeth glistened under his coal-black moustache; and these, as he came near the spot where I was held captive, were displayed, in what was intended for a smile of gratification, but which had all the characteristics of a grin.

I supposed at first that this gratification simply proceeded from his having made prisoner one of the enemies of his country. I had no idea that it could by any possibility have especial reference to myself.

One thing, however, struck me as peculiar. When the brigand spoke – addressing some words of direction to his subordinates – I fancied I had heard his voice before!

It fell on my ears without producing an agreeable impression. Rather the contrary; but where I could have heard it, or why it should jar upon my ear, were questions I could not answer.

I had been a good deal among Mexicans of all classes – not only since the capture of Vera Cruz, but long before the commencement of the campaign. My knowledge of their language had naturally inducted me into a more extensive acquaintance with our enemies than was the lot of most of my comrades. For this reason it did not follow that the sound of a familiar voice should lead to the instant recognition of the man who uttered it – more especially as he from whom it proceeded was before my eyes in propria persona– the chief of a band of salteadores.

I scanned the robber’s face with as much minuteness as circumstances would permit. I could not perceive in it a single feature that I remembered ever to have seen before.

Perhaps I was mistaken about the voice?

I listened to hear it again. Not long was I kept waiting. Once more it was raised; not, as before, in words addressed to the salteadores who surrounded me, but to myself.

“Ho, cavallero!” cried the robber chief, coming up to the spot where I stood, and speaking in a tone of triumphant exultation; “you are welcome among us – the more especially as I owe you a revanche for the little bit of service you did me last night. If I am not mistaken, it is to your bullet I am indebted for this.”

As the brigand spoke, he threw back upon his shoulders the closed folds of his manga, exposing his right arm to my view. I saw that it was carried in a sling, and that the hand, protruding beyond the scarf that supported it, was wrapped in cotton rags, that were stained with blotches of dry blood!

My memory needed no further refreshing. No wonder that the bandit’s voice had fallen upon my ears with a familiar sound. It was the same I had heard only the night before, giving utterance to that hideous threat of which I had hindered the fulfilment – the same that had cried, “Die, Calros Vergara!”

No additional explanation was required. I stood in the presence of Ramon Rayas!

“How feel you now?” continued the robber, in a taunting tone, not unmingled with fierce bitterness. “Don Quixote of the modern time! You, the protector of female innocence! Ha! ha! ha!”

“Ah,” cried he, turning round, and fixing his eyes upon my beautiful horse – held captive, like myself, by half a score of lazos. “Por Dios! You have the advantage of La Mancha’s knight in your mount. A steed fit for a salteador! He will suit me, as if he had been foaled on purpose.

“Ho there, Santucho!” he cried out to one of his band, who was holding Moro by the bridle-rein. “Off with that stupid saddle, and replace it with my own. I just wanted such a horse. Thank you, Señor Americano! You can have mine in exchange; and you will be the more welcome to him since you have only one more ride to make before making that great leap that will launch you into the gulf of eternity! Ha! ha! ha!”

To this series of taunting speeches I offered no reply. Words of mine would have been idle as the murmurings of the wind. I knew it; and withheld them.

“Into your saddles, leperos!” cried the brigand, thus familiarly addressing himself to his subordinates. “Bring your prisoner along with you. Strap him tightly to the horse. Have a care he don’t escape! If he do you shall dearly rue your negligence, besides losing the pleasure of a spectacle which I shall provide for you after we arrive at the Rinconada.”

Rayas leaped upon the back of my own brave steed, which chafed, discontented, under the clumsy caparison of the Mexican saddle; but more so when mounted by one whom he seemed to recognise as the enemy of his master.

For myself I was roughly pitched upon the back of the brigand’s horse; and, after being securely tied, hands behind, and legs to the stirrup-leathers, I was conducted from the ground, a brace of brigands riding, one on either side, and guarding me with a vigilance that forbade me to indulge in the slightest hope of escape.

Story 1, Chapter XXI

Robbers En Route

At a short distance from the spot where I had been lazoed, the road taken by the robbers debouched from the forest, and entered the chapparal.

No longer under the gloomy shadow of the great trees, I had a better view of the band, and could see that they were genuine salteadores.

Indeed, I had not doubted it from the first – at least, not after discovering who was their leader. The wounded Jarocho had told me that most of the guerillos commanded by Rayas, were no better than brigands; and that such honest fellows as himself, who had been forced to join it, would all return to their homes, after the breaking up of the Mexican army by the defeat of Cerro Gordo.

What I now saw was no longer Rayas’ guerillas, but a remnant of it – or rather the individuals of that organisation, who had been his bandit associates before the breaking out of the war.

There were in all between twenty and thirty of these patriotic brigands; and from the opportunity I now had of scanning the faces of such as were near me, I can justly affirm that a more ferocious set of ruffians I never beheld – to the full as picturesque, and evidently as pitiless, as their Italian brethren of the Abruzzi.

On their march they observed a sort of rude order – riding two and two – though this formation was forced upon them by the necessity of the narrow path, rather than from any control of their leader.

Where the road at intervals ran through openings, the ranks were broken at will; and the troop would get clumped together, to string out again on re-entering the chapparal path.

For myself, I was guarded by a brace of morose wretches, as I have said, one riding on each side of me; and both armed with long naked blades; which, had I shown the slightest sign of attempting to escape, would have been thrust into me without either reluctance or remorse.

But there was no chance even to make the attempt. I was strapped to the stirrups, with my hands firmly bound behind my back; and lest the steed, on which they had mounted me, should stray from the track, the lazo of one of my keepers was passed through the bitt-ring of the bridle, and then attached to the tree of the robber’s own saddle.

In this manner was our march conducted – the route being towards Orizava. There was no mistaking the direction: for the snow-capped summit of the great “Citlapetel” was right before our faces – piercing up into a sky of cloudless azure.

From the top of a ridge which we crossed, shortly after coming out of the timber, I discovered that we were yet at no great distance from Cerro Gordo itself; so near, that on glancing back – for we were now riding away from it – I could see the American flag upon “El Telegrafo,” and could even distinguish the stars and stripes!

My chase after the riderless horse had carried me several miles from Corral Falso; but I had been all the while riding back in the direction of the battle-field – in a line nearly parallel to the main road, over which my troop had been travelling. It was only on re-entering the timber that the chase had conducted me in a different direction – southward, towards Orizava.

I could now understand how I had fallen into the hands of Rayas and his robbers.

After the battle, these worthies had lingered in the neighbourhood of the field – for what purpose I knew not then – plunder, I supposed – and this was, no doubt, the explanation, so far as most of them were concerned. Their chief, however, had a different object; one which, ere long, I was enabled to comprehend.

The character of the country around Cerro Gordo – a labyrinth of cañons and barrancos– covered with a thick growth of tangled chapparal, rendered their remaining near the field of their defeat an easy matter – unattended with danger. They knew the pursuit had passed up the main road to Jalapa; and there was not the remotest chance of their being followed across country.

They had accomplished whatever purpose had kept them near the field; and they were now en route for some more distant scene of action.

I had been actually riding after them– on that headlong chase which carried me into the midst of their improvised ambuscade!

As a prisoner, my position lay in the rear – only one or two files of the cuadrilla riding behind me.

I could see Rayas in front, at the head of his band.

I wondered he did not hang back for the purpose of taunting me with his triumphant speeches. I could only account for his not doing so, by the supposition that he was a man of patience, and that my hour of torture had not arrived.

That I should have to suffer some fearful indignity, in all likelihood, and the loss of my life, I felt certain. What had occurred between myself and the brigand chief, had established a relationship that must end in the ruin of one or the other; and it was clear that I was to be the victim. It needed not that hideous grin with which he had regarded me, on becoming his prisoner – nor the jovial style in which he talked of a revanche, – to assure me that for this mild term I might substitute the phrase – “Deadly revenge!”

He had promised his associates a spectacle on their arrival at La Rinconada. I had no doubt, that in that spectacle I was myself to be the prominent figure; or at all events the chief sufferer.

I had been riding for some time, absorbed in meditations, that I need not pronounce painful. Circumstanced as I was, they could not be pleasant. It was only in an occasional and involuntary glance, that my eyes had rested upon Rayas, at the head of his cuadrilla.

I had not noticed a peculiar personage riding by his side. This arose from the fact, that the individual in question was of shorter stature than the other salteadores, by nearly the head, and therefore hidden from my view by the bodies of the brigands habitually interposed between us.

After cresting the ridge above mentioned, and commencing the descent on its opposite side, I could command a better view of those in front; and then it was that the individual, riding alongside of Rayas, attracted my attention. Not only attracted it, but fixed it, to the exclusion of every other thought – even the reflections I had been hitherto indulging in, upon my own unfortunate situation.

At the first glance I had mistaken the companion of the robber chief for a man, or a boy closely approximating to manhood. There was a man’s hat upon the head – the usual low-crowned, broad-brimmed sombrero. Moreover, the style of equitation was that of a man – a leg on each side of the saddle.

It was only at the second glance that my gaze became fixed – only after perceiving, by the long plaits of hair hanging down to the croup of the saddle – along with some peculiarities of shape and costume – that the companion of the robber chief was a woman!

There was nothing in the discovery to cause me surprise. Both the hat on the head, and the mode —à la Duchesse de Berri– in which the woman was mounted, were sights that could be seen any day upon the roads of Mexico, or in the streets of its cities. Both were but the common fashions of the country.

What fixed my attention was the fact, that I fancied I knew the woman – or rather girl, as she appeared to be – that I had seen her before!

It was only the back of the head and shoulders I was yet permitted to see; but there was sufficient idiosyncracy about these, to beget within me a vague idea of identification.

I had hardly time to enter into the field of conjecture, when a slight turn in the path brought the faces of the leading riders en profile to my view; among others, that of the girl.

A shot through the heart could not have been more painful, or caused me to start more abruptly, than the sight of that face.

“Lola Vergara!”

Story 1, Chapter XXII

Dark Suspicions

I cannot describe the painful impression produced upon me, at seeing the Jarocha in such strange companionship.

At first I was inclined to disbelieve the evidence of my eyes, and to think that I was being cheated by a resemblance.

But as the path turned into a second zigzag, more abrupt than the first, the profile became a quarter-face portrait; and there was no chance for me to avoid the conviction that Lola Vergara was riding alongside Ramon Rayas!

A countenance like hers was not common. It was too beautiful to have had a counterpart, even in that land of lovely graces.

Besides, I now recognised the dress, the same worn by the Jarocha when I had last seen her, some six hours before, with only the addition of the sombrero, which had been donned, no doubt, as a protection against the hot beams of a tropical sun.

I had just time to assure myself of the identity of the girl; when the road, having reached the bottom of the hill, turned straight again; and from that time till the cuadrilla came to a halt, I could only catch occasional glimpses, either of the robber captain, or of the fair equestrian moving onward by his side.

Though no longer privileged with a fair view either of Ramon Rayas or Lola Vergara, the painful impression produced by their juxtaposition continued to harrass my soul; and during the half hour that intervened before arriving at the halting-place of the brigands, I gave myself up to reflections and conjectures imbued with the extreme of bitterness.