The Bandolero: or, A Marriage among the Mountains

“All the while the old Don war down upon his belly – flat as a pancake – from which seetuation he warn’t allowed to stir, till the gurls had gone clean out o’ sight.

“Then one o’ the band bargained wi’ him about the ransom-money – tellin’ him it was to be trusted to me, an’ whar it was to be brought. They then bundled him back into the coach, an ordered me to drive on – the which, I reckon, I war riddy enough to do.”

“But there was a priest along with them. What became of him?”

“Oh! the monk. That ’ere is also kewrious. The robbers usooaly let them go – after makin’ ’em give each o’ the band a blessin’! Him they kep along wi’ ’em; for what purpose the Lord only knows. Maybe to make sport o’ him, by way o’ divarshin. Seein’ that I war no longer wanted, I gave the whup to the hosses; and fetched the old gentleman away, all by himself.”

“Do you think his daughters in danger of being ill-treated?”

“Well, that depends on whose hands they’ve fallen into. Some are worse than others. Some times they’re only a set o’ idle fellows from the towns, who put on robber for the time – just to raise the wind in that way. When they’ve got up a stake, they go back to their gamblin’ at monté; the which pays them better, and ain’t so much risk o’ their gettin’ shot, or shet up. There are officers of the army who’ve been known to take a turn at the business – after they’ve spent their pay, or don’t get it to spend – which last happens beout half the time.

“Then there’s the reg’lar bandoleros– or salteadores, as they sometimes call ’em – who live by it for constant. Of them there’s several seprit bands along this road. One in partickler, called Carrasco’s, who used to be a officer in Santa Anna’s army. There’s Dominguez, too, who was a colonel; but he’s now along wi’ you at the head o’ the Spies. I don’t think it was Carrasco’s fellows that stopped us this time.”

“Why not?”

“They wouldn’t a’ cared to wear crape. I hope it wan’t them.”

I had a painful suspicion why this hope was expressed; and anxiously enquired the reason.

“Because,” answered the guide, “if it hez been Carrasco, I shed say a pity o’ them two young critters. Kewrious thar showin’ so little skeeart!

“Maybe they didn’t more’n half know thar danger. As the robbers don’t allers ill-treat the weemen – ’ceptin’ to strip ’em of thar gimcracks and the like – the Mexican sheemales ain’t so much ’fraid o’ ’em as ye might suppose they’d be.”

“Arter all,” continued he, “it may be that I war mistaken. They were so quick bore off into the bushes, I hadn’t much time to take notice o’ ’em – the more so as I had enough to do in keepin’ my hosses from goin’ over the edge o’ a precipice – by the side o’ which we were brought to the stand.”

“In any case,” pursued Sam Brown, riding a little closer to me, and speaking so as not to be overheard by my followers, “It air time ye made up your mind what to do, cap’n. We’re now come to the place, whar we must take leave o’ the main road. The rendezvoos gin me by the robbers lies up one o’ these side gullies, whar there’s nothin’ but a bridle path. Another half-hour’s ridin’ ’ll fetch us to the place o’ appointment.”

“Have you thought of any other plan than that already spoken of?”

I put the question, fancying from his manner that something else had suggested itself to him.

“I hev, cap’n. There’s jest a chance that I know whar them craped gentlemen air at this very minute – jest a chance of thar bein’ thar.”

The last words were spoken slowly, and in a sort of meditative soliloquy.

“Where? Of what place are you speaking?”

“A queery place; and ye wouldn’t know whar it is if I war to tell ye. To understan the lie o’ that shanty, ye’d hev to see it for yourself; which not many ever do, ceptin’ them as have got bizness thar – an’ they ain’t sech as air honest.”

“A shanty – there’s a house? Some solitary dwelling, I suppose?”

“Ye may well call it that, cap’n. It sartinly are the most solitariest dwellin’ I ever seed; an’ what any man ked iver a built it for, beats my recknin’ – as I b’lieve it do that o’ most others as hev specklated upon it. Lies up thar.”

I looked in the direction indicated by his gesture. Several dark lists seamed the side of the mountain – at the foot of which we had come to a halt. One of them looked deeper and more cavernous than the rest; though all seemed to trend towards the summit of the slope.

The mountain itself went up with a gradual acclivity; its sides forest-covered – except here and there, where the naked porphyry peeped out through the dark green drapery of the pines.

Though the sky was moonless, there were stars. By their light I could distinguish something white above and beyond the pine-covered track. It looked like a patch of fleecy cloud.

“That ere’s the buzzum o’ the White Woman,” remarked the guide, seeing what my eyes were fixed upon. “She lies jest beyont the big black mountain. There’s only a sort o’ a ridge atween ’em.”

“Ixticihuatl!” I said, now recognising the snowy summit. “You don’t mean that the robbers are gone up there?”

“Not so fur as that. If they war, we shed have a climb for it. The place I’m speakin’ o’ is in that dark gulley ye see straight afore you. It’s this side the lower end o’ it whar I’m to meet thar messenger, and deliver up the dollars. That’s jest why I think we might find them at the shanty I’ve told ye about.”

“There can be no harm in our going there?”

“I reckon not,” answered the guide, reflectingly. “If we don’t find ’em thar, we kin get back to the bottom afore daylight, an’ then carry out the other plan. Thar’s one thing we’ve got to do, afore we reach that ere shanty. We’ve got to hev a climb for it; and the last quarter o’ a mile ’ll hev to be made upon Shanks’s mare.”

“No matter for that,” I said, impatient to proceed. “You lead the way. I’ll answer for myself and men being able to follow you.”

“I ain’t afeerd beout that,” rejoined Don Samuel Bruno. “But mind, cap’n!” added he, in the exercise of his Yankee caution, “I haint said we’ll find them thar – only thet it air likely. All events it air worth while tryin’ – considerin’ sech a sweet gurl as she air in the hands o’ sech ruffins. She oughter be tuk from ’em anyhow – an’ at any price!”

I needed not to ask him which was meant by the “sweet gurl.” Too well did I divine that it was Dolores.

“Lead on!” I exclaimed, giving the spur to my horse, and the “Forward” to my followers.

Chapter Thirty One.

Demonté

It had not yet reached the hour of midnight, as we left the Great National Road, and commenced moving up the mountain, – in a lateral though somewhat parallel course to that we had been following.

For a mile we marched along a path, where wheels might have passed at a pinch.

We could see by the starlight that there were some small settlements on each side, and one more conspicuous above, which we knew to be the hacienda of Buena Vista – famed as the spot where the best view can be had of the valley of Mexico. From this circumstance does the dwelling derive its name; and he who from its azotea can look downward, without having his soul stirred within him, must be incapable of romantic emotion.

On approaching from the coast – I mean Vera Cruz – it is here the traveller first obtains a good view (buena vista) of the world-renowned “Valle of Tenochtitlan;” here that he first comes within sight of the City of the Moctezumas.

Story-telling tourists can see it from the summit of the Sierra – looking through the long-leaved pines! Almost every one who has written a book about Mexico has made this plausible assertion.

But it must be remembered that these books have been mostly compiled after the travellers had returned home; and, in some instances to my knowledge, before they started out – not having started at all!

One and all have followed the first teller of the fictitious talc; who must have been sharper sighted than I. With tolerably good eyes – strengthened by a capital field glass – I could see no city of Mexico from the summit of the Sierra, nor from any part of its sloping declivity, through the dearest break the pine-forest afforded.

Considering the distance, it is not likely that I should. What I saw was the “Valle” itself – not a valley in our sense, but a wide plain; inclosing within its limits several isolated hills, that might almost be termed mountains; mottled with broad expanses of swamp, and sheets of clear water – the largest of these being Lakes Tezcoco and Chalco; here and there a white dot, showing the lime-washed walls of a hacienda, the keener sparkle of a church spire, or the glistening of an enamelled dome amidst the scattered huts of a pueblita.

All this you may see from the summit of the Cordillera; but not the towers of Tenochtitlan. Before you can distinguish these, you must descend – nearer and lower. You must look from the terrace where stands Buena Vista; or the plateau occupied by the “Venta” of Cordova.

When nearly abreast of the latter place, the road we were pursuing ran out, or rather into a bridle path; and my little troop had to stretch out into “twos.”

A mile farther on, and even this slender formation had to be changed to one still more extended. The path was only possible for “single file;” and into this we fell.

Another mile of marching, and it was not possible for cavalry, or horsemen of any kind. Only a pedestrian could pursue it, and he, too, one accustomed to climbing.

I muttered the command to halt, which had become indispensable. It was earned in sotto voce to the rear; and the horses, strung out for a hundred yards, came to a stand – one behind the other.

“There is no road beyond?” I said, interrogating the guide, who had squeezed up alongside of me.

“For horses, no. Only a footpath; an’ scace that eyther. Thar air a horse track further up; but it comes in from t’other side o’ the ridge – on the left. It strikes off o’ the National Road, close to the place whar the coach got stopped. Thet’s why I hev the suspicion the fellurs may be found at the house as lies up hyar.”

“But why have we not gone along the main road, and then taken that you speak of? We could have ridden on to the house?”

“No – not to the house. Thar’s a bit o’ it too – the last hundred yards or so – impossible for bosses.”

“Still it would have been better than to leave them here? I don’t like separating the men from their saddles – especially as we know nothing of the ground.”

“Thar’s another reezun for our not goin’ the other way,” pursued the guide, without replying to my remarks. “If I’d taken you by the road we might a made a mess o’ it.”

“How?”

“If they’re up at the big house there’ll be one o’ ’em on the watch down below – near the joinin’ o’ the roads. They allers keep a sentry there. He’d be sartin to a seen us – whereas, by comin’ this way, we may have a chance o’ stealin’ close to the shanty afore any o’ ’em sets eyes on us.”

“You propose that we dismount, then, and go forward afoot?”

“Thar’s no other way, cap’n.”

“How far is it to the house?”

“As to distance, nothin’; not over six hundred yards, I shed say. I’ve only been there once. It’s the steepness o’ the track that takes up the time.”

I did not much like the idea of dismounting my men, and leading them away from their horses. Not but that the individuals I had selected were equal to good fighting afoot; but it occurred to me that it was possible for us to have been seen, as we marched along the lower road – seen, too, by those who might have a fancy to follow us.

There were guérilleros along the mountain foot, as well as robbers in its ravines. In short, every peasant and small proprietor was at this time a partisan.

What if a band should get together, and come on after us? The capture of twenty American horses – without a blow struck to retain them – would have been a blow to me I should not easily have got over. It would have been the ruin of a military reputation, I had but just commenced making.

I dared not risk such a discomfiture; and I determined upon the men remaining by their horses.

I had no idea of abandoning the enterprise. That would have been a still greater disgrace. I but stayed to consider some plan of approach, involving less risk of a failure.

A few minutes spent in reflection, and a few more words exchanged with the stage-driver, helped me to what I conceived a better: the men to remain where they were; myself and the guide to go up the ravine alone, reconnoitre the house, and then take such measures as circumstances might suggest.

If we should find that the brigands were “abroad,” my troopers would be spared a toilsome ascent, and the chagrin of a disappointment. If “at home,” it might then be worth while to pay them a visit in full force.

The guide thought there would be no danger in our going alone – so long as we made our reconnoissance with proper caution. There was no scarcity of cover, both underwood and tall timber. In the event of our being perceived while making approach, we could fall back upon our friends, before much harm could be done to us. Should we be close pressed, the men could meet us half-way. I had the means of making them hear me at three times the distance.

I had no lieutenant with me – only my first sergeant, who had seen service in three out of the four quarters of the globe. Above all, he had “fit Injun, both in forest and prairie;” and could be trusted on an enterprise like that we had in hand.

Having arranged the signal in a whisper, and communicated to him such other instructions as occurred to me, I dismounted from my horse; and followed “Don Samuel Bruno” in the direction of the “shanty.”

The night was far from being a dark one. These are rare under the skies of Southern Mexico. There was no moon, but myriads of stars; and at a later hour the moon might be expected.

The atmosphere was tranquil – scarce a breath of air stirring the suspended leaves of the pines. The slightest sound could have been heard at a remarkable distance. We could distinguish the bleating of sheep on the plain below, and the screaming of wildfowl on the sedgy shores of Lake Chalco!

Less light, and more noise, would have answered our purpose better.

We ourselves made but little of the last. Though the path was steep, it was not so difficult of ascent – only here and there, as it extended from terrace to terrace by a more precipitous escarpment – and up these we were assisted by the shrubbery.

We had agreed to proceed by signs; or, when near enough, by whispers. We knew that the slightest sound might betray us.

At short intervals we stopped to obtain breath – less from actual exhaustion, than to keep down the noise of our heightened respiration.

At one place we made a more lengthened pause. It was upon a shelf-like terrace of some extent – where there were hoof-prints of horses, and other indications of a trodden path. My guide pointed them out – whispering to me, that it was the road of which he had spoken.

I bent down over the tracks. They were of recent date – made that very day. My prairie experience enabled me to tell this, despite the obscurity through which I scrutinised them. The “sign” promised well for the success of our enterprise.

Beyond, the road became opener and easier. For two or three hundred yards it trended along a horizontal level, and we could walk without strain.

The stage-driver silently preceded me – still going slowly, and without any abatement of caution.

I had time to reflect, as I followed him.

My thoughts were anything but cheerful. The gloomy canopy of the pines appeared to give a tinge to my spirit, and it became attuned to the sad sighing heard high up among their ancillae. The moaning of the great Mexican owl, as it glided past on soft silent wing, seemed meant only to mock me!

I had been under a half belief that I had forgotten Dolores Villa-Señor, or become indifferent to her existence. Vain hallucination! Idle, and I knew it now.

Long weary marches; sieges protracted; battles, and wounds therein received; even the coquetry of other eyes – wicked as hers – had not chased her image from my heart, or my memory. It was there still.

I could see her countenance before me – under the sombre shadow of the trees – plain as I saw the white-winged owls – soft as the weird wafting of their wings!

I had not forgotten her. In that hour I knew that I never should.

And while hastening to effect her rescue, I felt as if I could have gloated over her ruin – so steeped was my soul in chagrin – so brimful of black vengeance!

It was no chivalrous thought that was carrying me up the slopes of Ixticihuatl – only the hope of humiliating her, who had humiliated me!

I was aroused from my unworthy imaginings by the voice of Sam Brown, whispering close to my ear. His words were: —

“Don’t ye hear it, cap’n?”

“Hear what?”

“The music.”

“If you call the hooting of that horrid owl – ”

I stopped at a gesture from my guide. In the obscurity I could see his hand uplifted, his finger pointing upwards.

“Don’t ye hear somethin’ up that way?” he continued, “Thar’s the twang o’ a guitar, or one o’ them thar Mexikin bandoleens – as they call ’em. Hear that? Somebody laughin’! Hear that, too? If my ears haven’t lost thar hearin’, that ere’s the voice o’ a sheemale!”

The last remark secured my attention. I listened – as if expecting to hear a summons of life or death!

There was the twang of a stringed instrument – harp or guitar, bandolon or jarana. There was a voice – a man’s voice – and the instant after a series soft tones, with that metallic ring that can only proceed from the feminine throat.

“Yes,” I assented, mechanically, “there’s music there!”

“Moren’ that, cap’n! Thar’s dancin’.”

Again I listened.

Certainly there was the pattering of feet over a floor – with motion timed to the music – now and then a pause – a laugh or an exclamation – all betokening a scene of enjoyment!

“It’s the exact direckshin o’ the shanty,” whispered Sam. “They must be in it. Thar’s somethin’ goin’ on, hear that? There’s a bust! Darn me, if they hain’t got a fandango!”

It was an increased swelling in the sound that had called forth this exclamatory language. A violin had joined its continuous strain to the throbbing of the jarana; and several voices appeared to take part in the conversation, which was carried on during the intervals of the music.

There appeared to be nothing boisterous – no riot or roystering – only such sounds as might be made by a party of pleasure-seekers engaged in a picnic, or dia de campo– the chief difference being that it was in the night!

Certainly the sounds were not such, as I should have expected to proceed from a band of brigands engaged in an interlude of festivity.

“It’s them!” whispered the driver of the diligencia – a better judge of brigand music than myself. “The very chaps we’re in search o’. They’re doin’ a little bit o’ divartin; an’, cuss me, cap’n, ef I don’t b’lieve that them two gurls is joinin’ willinly in the spree!”

I answered his speech only in thought. And a fell, fearful thought it was.

“Dolores Villa-Señor not forced by cruel circumstances, but voluntarily assisting at a carnival of salteadores!”

All thoughts of strategy were chased out of my mind. Even prudence for the time forsook me. The remembrance of the past – the morbid imaginings of the present – alike maddened me.

She upon whom I had fixed my affections – high and holy – the toy of a robber-chief! Worse still; herself wanton and willing!

“Go on!” I said, grasping my guide by the arm; “on to the house! Let us see what it means. On, on! There’s no danger. In ten minutes I can call my men around me; and if need be, we can run back to them. On! on! I must see with my own eyes, if she can be so degraded!”

Without altogether comprehending why, Sam Brown saw that I was determined on advancing; and, yielding to my impulsive command, once more led the way.

Chapter Thirty Two.

Paradise from the Pillory

Another terrace was ascended; and before us stood the house – a massive structure of quadrangular shape only one story in height, but surmounted by an azotea with a parapet running around it.

It was placed upon a platform of limited extent; backed by a precipitous slope, of which the platform was the base; and flanked by two cliffs that scarped off in the opposite direction – downward.

What might be called the gables of the dwelling were flush with the flanking cliffs; but between its rear and the ascending slope was an inclosed space – forming a corral, or courtyard.

Its façade lay towards the smooth space in front; that declined gently from the walls, like the glacis of a fortification.

A better site for defence could scarcely have been chosen. No foe could advance by either flank; and an attacking party from the front would be exposed while crossing the open ground. The place might be more successfully assailed from the rear – by an enemy coming over the top of the sierra.

The idea of defence could not have been entertained. On the Indian frontier, yes; but in the valley of Mexico – tranquil since the time of Moctezuma – there had been no fighting. The structure could have nothing to do with the revolutionary era. It was too ancient for that.

It was difficult to understand why such a dwelling had been erected in such a place. It could not be an agricultural establishment: there was no arable land within reach. Nor yet a hacienda de ganados: since there was no pasture upon the pine-covered slopes that surrounded it.

Had it been built by the monks? Perhaps by some eccentric recluse, who had chosen the site, for the purpose of contemplating civilisation, without being disturbed by it?

These thoughts were things of an after-time; when, upon an excursion of curiosity, I made myself better acquainted with the topography of the place.

All that I saw then – as we were making our stealthy approach – was a block of dark mason work, with a still darker disc in the centre indicating the entrance door; and on each side of this a large window, from which a stream of light was escaping.

The ground in front had the look of a ruined garden – overgrown with rank grass, and here and there some clumps of shrubbery run wild.

Among these we made our approach – taking care to keep clear of the two bands of yellow light diverging from the windows. Both were mere apertures without glass; defended, as in all Mexican houses, by strong iron bars rising vertically from the sill.

There was neither blind nor curtain, to obstruct the passage of the light outward, or the view inward.

After a few seconds spent in skulking across the lawn, we succeeded in placing ourselves within good viewing distance of one of the windows.

Inside we could see a table set with the paraphernalia of a feast. It appeared a rude piece of furniture; as did also the chairs that stood around it. So, also, were the plates, dishes, and drinking vessels that covered it: though in these we could perceive a grotesque commingling of the cheap and costly.

Common earthenware ollas, and carved bowls of calabash, stood side by side with goblets of silver, and bottles, whose tapering necks told of claret and champagne!

Tall wax candles, that looked as if they had been moulded for the service of the Church, were suspended in chandeliers of the pitahaya cactus, or held in cleft sticks – themselves stuck into the interstices of the slab table!

Only the drink had been as yet brought upon the board; though the meats could be scented from the cocina; while several brown-skinned, leathern-clad, “muchachos” were moving to and fro, with a hurried empressement that showed they were setting the supper.

It was evident that the two windows were in different apartments; the one opposite us being the sala de comida, or dining-room.

It was the sala grande, or drawing-room, I most desired to look into.

Not to listen to the music, or become a spectator to the dancing. Both had ceased some time before; and in their place we could now hear only a single voice – that of a man, who seemed to be speaking in a tone measured and solemn!