Читать книгу Chata and Chinita - Laura Preston - Страница 4

Table of Contents

Meanwhile, the moon had risen and was flooding the broad roofs and various courts of the great buildings with a silvery brilliancy, which contrasted sharply with the inky shadows cast by moving creatures or solid wall or massive column. While it was early in the evening, the sound of voices was heard, mingling later with the monotonous minor tones of those half-playful, half-pathetic airs so dear to the ear and heart of the Mexican peasantry; but as night approached, silence gradually fell upon the scene, broken only by the mutter or snore of some heavy sleeper, or the stamping of the horses and mules in their stalls.

The new-comer Juan Planillos, who had joined readily in jest and song,—though his wit was scarce bright enough, it seemed, to attract attention to the speaker (while absolute silence certainly would have done so),—at length, following the example of those around him, sought the shaded side of the corridor, and wrapping himself in his striped blanket lay down a little apart from the others, and was soon fast asleep.

Men who are accustomed to rise before or with the dawn sleep heavily, seldom stirring in that deep lethargy which at midnight falls like a spell on weary man and beast; yet it was precisely at that hour that Juan Planillos, like a man who had composed himself to sleep with a definite purpose to arise at a specified time, uncovered his face, raised himself on his elbow, and glancing first at the sky (reading the position of the moon and stars), threw then a keen glance at the prostrate figures around him. The very dogs—of which, lean and mongrel curs, there were many—like the men, fearing the malefic influences of the rays of the moon, had retired under benches, and into the farthest corners, and upon every living creature profound oblivion had fallen.

It was some minutes before Planillos could thoroughly satisfy himself on this point, but that accomplished, he rose to his feet, leaving the sandals that he had worn upon the brick floor, and with extreme care pushing open the door near which he had taken the precaution to station himself, passed into the first and larger court, which he had entered upon reaching the hacienda. As he had evidently expected, he found this court entirely deserted, although in the vaulted archway at the farther side he divined that the gate-keeper lay upon his sheepskin in the little alcove beside the great door, of which he was the guardian.

As he stepped into this courtyard, Juan Planillos paused to draw upon his feet a pair of thin boots of yellow leather, so soft and pliable that they woke no echo from the solid paving, and still keeping in the shadow, he crossed noiselessly to a door set deep in a carved arch of stone, and like one accustomed to its rude and heavy fastenings, deftly undid the latch and looked into the court upon which opened the private apartments of the family of Garcia. He stood there in the shadow of the doorway, still dressed, it is true, in the ranchero’s suit,—a soiled linen shirt open at the throat, over which was a short jacket of stained yellow leather, while trousers of the same, opening upon the outside of the leg to the middle of the thigh, over loose drawers of white cotton, were bound at the waist by a scarf of silk which had once been bright red; his blanket covered one shoulder; his brows were still circled by the handkerchief, but he had pushed back the slouching hat, and the face which he thrust forward as he looked eagerly around had undergone some strange transformation, which made it totally unlike that of the stolid mixed-breed villager who had talked with the major-domo a few hours before. Even the features of the face seemed changed, the heavy fleshiness of the ranchero had given place to the refinement and keenness of the cavalier. The bushy brows were unbent, there was intelligence and vivacity in his dark eyes, a half-mocking, half-anxious smile upon his lips, which utterly changed the dull and ignorant expression, and of the same flesh and blood made an absolutely new creation.

It was not curiosity that lighted the eyes as they glanced lingeringly around, scanning the low chairs and tables scattered through the corridor, resting upon the rose-entwined columns that supported it, and then upon the fountain in the centre of the court, which threw a slender column in the moonlight, and fell like a thousand gems into the basin which overflowed and refreshed a vast variety of flowering shrubs that encircled it. It was rather a look of pleased recognition, followed by a sarcastic smile, as if he scorned a paradise so peaceful. There was indeed in every movement of his well-knit figure, in the clutch of his small but sinewy hand upon the door, something that indicated that the saddle and sword were more fitting to his robust physique and fiery nature than the delights of a lady’s bower.

Nevertheless, he was about to enter, and had indeed made a hasty movement toward the staircase that led to the upper rooms, when an unexpected sound arrested him. Planillos drew back into the shadow and listened eagerly, scarce crediting the evidence of his senses; gradually he fell upon his knees, covering himself with his dingy blanket, transforming himself into a dull clod of humanity, which under cover of the black shadows would escape observation except of the most jealous and critical eye. Yet this apparent clod was for the time all eyes and ears. Presently the sound he had heard, a light tap on the outer door, was repeated; a shrill call like that of a wild bird—doubtless a pre-arranged signal—sounded, and in intense astonishment he waited breathlessly for what should further happen.

Evidently the gate-keeper was not unprepared, for the first wild note caused him to raise his head sleepily, and at the second he staggered from his alcove, muttering an imprecation, and fumbling in his girdle for the key of the postern. He glanced around warily, even going softly to places where the shadows fell most darkly; but finding no one, returned, and with deft fingers proceeded to push back noiselessly the bolts of the small door set in a panel of the massive one which closed the wide entrance. It creaked slowly upon its hinges, so lightly that even a bird would not have stirred in its slumbers, and a man cautiously entered. He had spurs upon his heels, and after effecting his entrance stooped to remove them, and Planillos had time and opportunity to see that he was not one of Pedro Gomez’s associates,—not one of the common people.

The midnight visitor was tall and slender, the latter though, it would seem, from the incomplete development of youth, rather than from delicacy of race. The long white hand that unbuckled his spurs was supple and large; his whole frame was modelled in more generous proportions than are usually seen in the descendants of the Aztecs or their conquerors.

“Ingles,” thought Planillos, using a term which is indiscriminately applied to English or Americans. “A man I dare vow it would be hard to deal with in fair fight!”

But evidently the Englishman, or American, was not there with any idea of contest; a pistol gleamed in his belt, but its absence would have been more noticeable than its presence,—it was worn as a matter of course. For so young a man, in that country where every cavalier native or foreign affected an abundance of ornament, his dress was singularly plain,—black throughout, even to the wide hat that shaded his face, the youthful bloom of which was heightened rather than injured by the superficial bronze imparted by a tropical sun.

Planillos had time to observe all this. Evidently the late-comer knew his ground, and had but little fear of discovery. “A bold fellow,” thought the watcher, “and fair indeed should be the Dulcinea for whom he ventures so much. It must be the niece of Don Rafael, or perhaps the governess—did I hear she was young?”

But further speculation was arrested by the movements of the stranger, who, after a moment’s parley with Pedro, came noiselessly but directly toward the door near which Planillos was lying.

Once within it, he paused to listen. Planillos expected him to make some signal, and to see him joined by a veiled figure in the corridor, but to his unbounded amazement and rage the intruder passed swiftly by the fountain, under the great trees of bitter-scented oleanders and cloying jasmine, and sprang lightly up the steps leading to the private apartments. His foot was on the corridor, when Planillos, light as a cat, leaped up the steep stair. His head had just reached the level of the floor above, when with an absolute fury of rage he caught the glimpse of a fair young face in the moonlight, and beheld the American in the embrace of a beautiful girl. Instinct, rather than recognition, revealed to his initiated mind the young heiress, Herlinda Garcia. Absolutely paralyzed by astonishment and rage, for one moment dumb, almost blinded, in the next he saw the closing of a heavy door divide from his sight the lovers whom he was too late to separate.

Too late? No! one blow from his dagger upon that closed door, one cry throughout the sleeping house and the life of the man who had stolen within would not be worth a moment’s purchase! It required all his strength of will, a full realization of his own position, to prevent Planillos from shouting aloud, from rushing to the door of Doña Isabel, to beat upon it and cry, “Up! up! look to your daughter! See if there be any shame like hers! see how your own child tramples upon the honor of which you have so proudly boasted!”

But he restrained himself, panting like a wild animal mad with excitement. The thought of a more perfect, a more personal revenge leaped into his mind, and silenced the cry that rose to his lips,—held him from rushing down to plunge his dagger into the heart of the false doorkeeper, completely obliterated even the remembrance of the purpose for which he had ventured into a place deemed so sacred, so secure! and sustained him through the long hour of waiting, the horrible intentness of his purpose each moment growing more fixed, more definitely pitiless.

For some time he stood rooted to the spot upon which he had made the discovery which had so maddened him, but at last he crouched in the shadow at the foot of the staircase; and scarcely had he done so, when the man for whom he waited appeared at the top. He saw him wave his hand, he even caught his whispered words, so acute were his senses: “Never fear, my Herlinda, all will be well. I will protect you, my love! In another week at most all this will be at an end. I shall be free to come and go as I will!”

“Free as air!” thought the man lying in the shadow, with grim humor, even as he grasped his dagger. Crouching beneath his blanket he had drawn from his brows the red kerchief. The veins stood black and swollen upon his temples as the foreigner, waving a last farewell, descended the stairs. He passed with drooping head, breathing at the moment a deep sigh, within a hand’s breadth of an incarnate fiend.

Ah, devoted youth! had thy guardian angel veiled her face that night? Oh, if but at the last moment thy light foot would wake the echoes and rouse the sleepers, already muttering in their dreams, as if conscious that the dawn was near. But nothing happened; the whole world seemed wrapped in oblivion as he bent over the gate-keeper, and with some familiar touch aroused him. He stooped to put on his spurs, as Pedro opened the postern, and instantly stepped forth, while the gate-keeper proceeded to replace the fastenings. But as the man turned nervously, with the sensation of an unexpected presence near him, he was absolutely paralyzed with dismay. A livid face, in which were set eyes of lurid blackness, looked down upon him with satanic rage. The bulk that towered over him seemed colossal. “Mercy! mercy!” he ejaculated. “By all the saints I swear—”

“Let me pass!” hissed Planillos in a voice scarce above a whisper, but which in its intensity sounded in the ears of Pedro like thunder. “Villain, let me pass!” and he cast from him the terrified gate-keeper as though he were a child, and rushed out upon the sandy slope which lay between the great house and the village. He was not a moment too soon. In the dim light he caught sight of the lithe figure of the foreigner, as he passed rapidly over the rough ground skirting the village, the better to escape the notice of the dogs, which, tired with baying the moon, had at last sunk to uneasy slumbers.

Planillos looked toward the moon, and cursed its rapid waning. The light grew so faint he could scarce keep the young man in sight, as he approached a tree where a dark horse was tied, which neighed as he drew near. Planillos clutched his dagger closer; would the pursued spring into his saddle, and thus escape, at least for that night? On the contrary, he lingered, leaning against his horse, his eyes fixed on the white walls of the house he had left. All unconscious of danger, he stood in the full strength of manhood, with the serene influences of Nature around him, his mind so rapt and tranced that even had his pursuer taken no precaution in making his approach from shrub to shrub, concealing his person as much as possible, he would probably have reached his victim unnoticed. Within call slept scores of fellow-men; behind him, scarce half a mile away, rose the walls and chimneys of his whilom home; not ten minutes before he had said, “I shall be as safe on the road as in your arms, my love!” He was absolutely unconscious of his surroundings, lost in a blissful reverie, when with irresistible force he was hurled to the ground; a frightful blow fell upon his side,—the heavens grew dark above him. Conscious, yet dumb, he staggered to his feet, only to be again precipitated to the earth; the dagger that at the moment of attack had been thrust into his bosom, was buried to the hilt; the blood gushed forth, and with a deep groan he expired.

All was over in a few moments of time. John Ashley’s soul, with all its sins, had been hurled into the presence of its Judge. The self-appointed avenger staggered, gasping, against the tree; an almost superhuman effort had brought a terrible exhaustion. Every muscle and nerve quivered; he could scarcely stand. Yet thrusting from him with his foot the dead body, he thirsted still for blood. “If I could but return and kill that villain Pedro,” he hissed; “if his accursed soul could but follow to purgatory this one I have already sent! But, bah! a later day will answer for the dog! Ah, I am so spent a child might hold me; but,” looking toward the mountains, “this horse is fresh and fleet. I shall be safe enough when the first beam of the morning sun touches your lover’s lips, Herlinda.”

The assassin glanced from his victim toward the house he had left, with a muttered imprecation; then, trembling still from his tremendous exertions, he approached the steed, which, unable to break the lariat by which it had been fastened, was straining and plunging, half-maddened, after the confusion of the struggle, by the smell of blood already rising on the air.

Planillos possessed that wonderfully magnetic power over the brute creation which is as potent as it is rare, and which on this occasion within a few moments completely dominated and calmed the fright and fury of the powerful animal, which he presently mounted, and which—though man and horse shook with the violence of excitement and conflict—he managed with the ease that denoted constant practice and superb horsemanship. With a last glance at the murdered man, whom the darkness that precedes the dawn scarce allowed him to distinguish from the shrubs around, he put spurs to the restive steed, and galloped rapidly away.