Читать книгу Gunfights & Revolutions (Texas War Trilogy) - Gustave Aimard - Страница 18

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The sun had almost entirely disappeared on the horizon at the moment when the caravans reached the halting ground.

This spot, situated on the top of a rather scarped hill, had been selected with that sagacity which distinguishes Texan or Mexican arrieros; any surprise was impossible, and the aged trees that grew on the crest of the hill would, in the event of an attack, offer a secure protection against bullets.

The mules were unloaded, but, contrary to the usual custom, the bales, instead of being employed as a breastwork for the camp, were piled up and placed out of reach of the marauders whom chance or cupidity might attract to this quarter when the darkness had set in.

Seven or eight large fires were lit in a circle, in order to keep off wild beasts; the mules received their ration of Indian corn on mantas or horsecloths laid on the ground; then, so soon as sentinels were posted round the camp, the troopers and arrieros were busily engaged in preparing the poor supper, which the day's fatigues rendered necessary.

Captain Don Juan and the monk, who had gone a little aside to a fire lit expressly for them, were beginning to smoke their husk cigarettes, while the officer's servant was hastily preparing his master's meal—a meal, we are bound to say, as simple as that of the other members of the caravan, but which hunger had the privilege of rendering not only appetising, but almost succulent, although it was only composed of a few varas of tocino, or meat dried in the sun, and four or five biscuits.

The Captain soon finished his supper. He then rose, and, as night had completely fallen, went to visit the sentries, and see that all was in order. When he resumed his place by the fire, Father Antonio, with his feet turned to the flame, and wrapped in a thick zarapé, was sleeping, or pretending to sleep, soundly.

Don Juan examined him for a moment with an expression of hatred and contempt, impossible to describe, shook his head twice or thrice thoughtfully, and then told his assistants, who were standing a few paces off in expectation of his orders, to have the two prisoners brought up.

These prisoners had hitherto been kept apart; though treated with respect, it was, however, easy for them to see that they were guarded with the greatest care; still, either through carelessness or some other reason, they did not appear to notice the fact, for their weapons had been left them, and, judging from their muscular force and energetic features, though both had reached middle life, there was fair ground for supposing when the moment arrived for them to insist on their liberty, they would be the men to try and regain it by force.

Without any remark they followed the Captain's servant, and soon found themselves before that officer.

Though the night was gloomy, the flames of the fire spread sufficient light around to illumine the faces of the new comers.

On seeing them Don Juan gave a start of surprise, but one of the prisoners laid his finger on his lip to recommend prudence to him, and at the same time glanced significantly at the monk lying near them.

The Captain understood this dumb warning, to which he replied by a light nod of the head, and then affected the utmost carelessness.

"Who are you?" he asked, as he idly rolled a cigarette between his fingers.

"Hunters," one of the prisoners answered, without hesitation.

"You were found a few hours back halting on the bank of a stream."

"Quite correct."

"What were you doing there?"

The prisoner bent a scrutinizing glance around, and then looked again boldly at the speaker.

"Before giving any further answer to your questions," he said, "I should like to ask you one in my turn."

"What is it?"

"Your right to cross-question me?"

"Look round you," the Captain lightly replied.

"Yes, I understand you, the right of force. Unluckily I do not recognize that right. I am a free hunter, acknowledging no other law but my will, no other master but myself."

"Oh, oh! your language is bold, comrade."

"It is that of a man not accustomed to yield to any arbitrary power; to take me you have abused—I do not say your strength, for your soldiers would have killed me, before compelling me to follow them, had not such been my intention—but the facility with which I confided in you: I therefore protest against it, and demand my immediate freedom."

"Your haughty language has no effect on me, and were it my good pleasure to force you to speak, I could compel you by certain irresistible arguments I possess."

"Yes," the prisoner said, bitterly, "the Mexicans remember the Spaniards their ancestors, and appeal to torture when necessary; well, try it, Captain—who prevents you? I trust that my gray hairs will not grow weak before your young moustache."

"Enough of this," the Captain said, angrily. "If I give you your liberty, should I deliver a friend or a foe?"

"Neither."

"Hum! what do you mean?"

"My answer is clear enough, surely."

"Still, I do not understand it."

"I will explain in two words."

"Speak."

"Both of us being placed in diametrically opposite positions, chance has thought proper to bring us together to-day: if we now part, we shall take with us no feeling of hatred through our meeting, because neither you nor I have had cause to complain of each other, and probably we shall never see each other again."

"Still, it is plain that when my soldiers found you, you were expecting somebody on this road."

"What makes you suppose that?"

"Hang it! you told me you were hunters; I do not see any game you could hunt along this road."

The prisoner began laughing.

"Who knows?" he replied, with a stress on his words, "Perhaps it was more precious game than you may fancy, and of which you would like to have your share."

The monk gave a slight start, and opened his eyes as awaking.

"What?" he said, addressing the Captain, and stifling a yawn. "You are not asleep, Don Juan?"

"Not yet," the latter answered. "I am questioning the two men my vanguard arrested some hours ago."

"Ah!" the monk remarked with a disdainful glance at the strangers, "these poor devils do not appear to me very alarming."

"You think so?"

"I do not know what you can have to fear from these men."

"Perhaps they are spies?"

Fray Antonio assumed a paternal air.

"Spies?" he said; "Do you fear an ambuscade?"

"Under the circumstances in which we now are, that supposition is not so improbable, I fancy."

"Nonsense! in a country like this, and with the escort you have at your service, that would be extraordinary; moreover, these two men let themselves be captured without resistance, as I heard, when they might easily have escaped."

"That is true."

"It is evident, then, that they had no bad intentions. If I were you, I would quietly let them go where they pleased."

"Is that your advice?"

"Indeed it is."

"You seem to take a great interest in these two strangers."

"I? Not the least in the world. I only tell you what is right, that's all: now you can act as you please. I wash my hands of it."

"You may be right, still I will not set these persons at liberty till they have told me the name of the person they were expecting."

"Were they expecting anybody?"

"They say so, at any rate."

"It is true, Captain," said the person who had hitherto spoken; "but though we knew you were coming, it was not you we were waiting for."

"Who was it, then?"

"Do you insist on knowing?"

"Certainly."

"Then answer, Fray Antonio," the prisoner said with a grin; "for you alone can reveal the name the Captain asks of us."

"I?" the monk said with a start of passion, and turning pale as a corpse.

"Ah, ah!" the Captain said, as he turned to him, "this is beginning to grow interesting."

It was a singular scene presented by the four men standing round the fire, whose flame fantastically lit up their faces.

The Captain carelessly smoked his cigarette, while looking sarcastically at the monk, on whose face impudence and fear were fighting a battle, every incident in which was easy to read; the two hunters, with their hands crossed over the muzzles of their long rifles, smiled cunningly, and seemed to be quietly enjoying the embarrassment of the man whom they had placed in this terrible dilemma.

"Don't pretend to look so surprised, Padre Antonio," the prisoner then at length said; "you know very well we were expecting you."

"Me?" the monk said in a choking voice; "the scoundrel is mad, on my soul."

"I am not mad, Padre, and I will trouble you not to employ such language toward me," the prisoner replied drily.

"Come, give in," the other, who had hitherto been silent, cried coarsely; "I do not care to dance at the end of a rope for your good pleasure."

"Which will inevitably happen," the Captain remarked quietly, "if you do not decide, Caballeros, on giving me a clear and explicit explanation of your conduct."

"There you see, Señor Frayle," the prisoner continued, "our position is growing delicate; come, behave like a man."

"Oh!" the monk exclaimed furiously, "I have fallen into a horrible trap."

"Enough," the Captain said in a thundering voice; "this farce has lasted only too long, Padre Antonio. It is not you who have fallen into a trap, but you tried to draw me into one. I have known you for a long time, and possess the most circumstantial details about the plans you were devising. It is a dangerous game you have been playing for a long time; a man cannot serve GOD and the devil simultaneously, without all being discovered at last; still, I wished to confront you with these worthy men, in order to confound you, and make the mask fall from your hypocritical face."

At this rude apostrophe the Monk was for a moment stunned, crushed as he was beneath the weight of the charges brought against him; at length he raised his head and turned to the Captain.

"Of what am I accused?" he asked haughtily.

Don Juan smiled contemptuously.

"You are accused," he replied, "of having wished to lead the conducta I command into an ambush formed by you, and where at this moment your worthy acolytes are waiting to massacre and rob us. What will you reply to that?"

"Nothing," he answered, drily.

"You are right, for your denials would not be accepted. Still, now that you are convicted by your own confession, you will not escape without an eternal recollection of our meeting."

"Take care of what you are about to do, Señor Captain: I belong to the church, and this gown renders me inviolable."

A mocking smile contracted the Captain's lips.

"No matter for that," he replied, "it shall be stripped off you."

Most of the troopers and arrieros, aroused by the loud voices of the monk and the officer, had gradually drawn nearer, and attentively followed the conversation.

The Captain pointed to the monk, and addressed the soldiers.

"Strip off the gown that covers that man," he said; "fasten him to a catalpa, and give him two hundred lashes with a chicote."

"Villains!" the monk exclaimed, nearly out of his mind; "Any man of you who dares to lay hands on me I curse; he will be eternally condemned for having insulted a minister of the altar."

The soldiers stopped in terror before this anathema, which their ignorance and stupid superstition robbed them of the courage to brave.

The monk folded his arms, and addressed the officer triumphantly—

"Wretched madman," he said, "I could punish you for your audacity, but I pardon you. Heaven will undertake to avenge me, and you will be punished when your last hour arrives. Farewell! Make room for me to pass, fellows!"

The dragoons, confused and timid, fell back slowly and hesitatingly before him; the Captain, forced to confess his impotence, clenched his fists, as he looked passionately around him.

The monk had all but passed through the ranks of the soldiers, when he suddenly felt his arm clutched; he turned with the evident intention of severely reprimanding the man who was so audacious as to touch him, but the expression of his face suddenly changed on seeing who it was that stopped him, and looked at him craftily, for it was no other than the strange prisoner, the first cause of the insult offered him.

"One moment, Señor Padre," the hunter said. "I can understand that these worthy fellows, who are Catholics, should fear your curse, and dare not lay a hand on you through their dread of eternal flames, but with me it is different. I am a heretic, as you know, hence I run no risk in taking off your gown, and, with your permission, I will do you that slight service."

"Oh!" the monk replied, as he ground his teeth; "I will kill you, John, I will kill you, villain!"

"Nonsense, threatened people live a long while," John replied, as he forced him to take off his monk's gown.

"There," he continued, "now, my fine fellows, you can carry out your Captain's orders in perfect safety; this man is no more to you than the first comer."

The hunter's bold action suddenly broke the spell that enchained the soldiers. So soon as the much-feared gown no longer covered the monk's shoulders, listening to neither prayers nor threats, they seized the culprit, fastened him, in spite of his cries, securely to a catalpa, and conscientiously administered the two hundred lashes decreed by the Captain, while the hunters played their part by counting the blows and laughing loudly at the contortions of the wretched man, whom pain caused to writhe like a serpent.

At the one hundred and twenty-eighth lash the monk became silent: his nervous system being completely overthrown, rendered him insensible; still, he did not faint, his teeth were clenched, a white foam escaped from his crisped lips, he looked fixedly before him without seeing anything, and giving no other signs of existence than the heavy sighs which at intervals upheld his muscular chest.

When the punishment was ended, and he was unfastened, he fell to the ground like a log, and lay there motionless.

His robe was handed back to him, and he was left to lie there, no one troubling himself further about him.

The two hunters then went off, after talking to the Captain for some minutes in a low voice.

The rest of the night passed away without incident.

A few minutes before sunrise, the soldiers and arrieros prepared to load the mules, and prepare everything for the start.

"Stay," the Captain suddenly exclaimed, "where is the monk? We cannot abandon him thus; lay him on a mule, and we will leave him at the first rancho we come to."

The soldiers hastened to obey, and look for Padre Antonio, but all their search was in vain; he had disappeared, and left no trace of his flight.

Don Juan frowned at the news, but, after a moment's reflection, he shook his head carelessly.

"All the better," he said, "he would have been in our way."

The conducta herewith started again.