The Lone Ranch, Mayne Reid [black male authors .TXT] 📗

he has taken habitually, almost continually. It is not to drown conscience; he has none. The canker-worm that consumes him is not remorse, but disappointment in a love affair, coupled with a thirst for vengeance.

There are moments when he is truly miserable, his misery reaching its keenest whenever he either looks into his mirror or stands before a portrait that hangs against the wall of the sala. It is a likeness of Adela Miranda; for he has taken possession of the house of his predecessor, with all its furniture and pictures, left in their hasty retreat, the young lady’s portrait as the rest.

The Lancer colonel loves Adela Miranda; and though his love be of a coarse, brutal nature, it is strong and intense as that the noblest man may feel.

In earlier days he believed there was a chance of his obtaining her hand. Humble birth is no bar in Mexico—land of revolutions—where the sergeant or common soldier of to-day may be a lieutenant, captain, or colonel to-morrow. His hopes had been a stimulant to his military aspirations; perchance one of the causes that first led him into crime. He believed that wealth might bridge over the social distinction between himself and her, and in this belief he cared not how it should be acquired. For the rest he was not ill-looking, rather handsome, and fairly accomplished. Like most Mexican militarios, he could boast of his bonnes fortunes, which he often did.

These have become more rare since receiving the sword-thrust from his American adversary in the duel at Chihuahua, which not only cost him three front teeth, but a hideous scar across the cheek. The teeth have been replaced, but the scar cannot be effaced; it remains a frightful cicatrix. Even his whiskers, let grow to their extremest outcrop, will not all conceal it; it is too far forward upon the face.

It was after this unfortunate affair that he made proposal to Adela Miranda. And now he cannot help thinking it had something to do with her abrupt and disdainful rejection of him, though the young lady’s little concealed disgust, coupled with her brother’s indignation, had no reference to the physical deformity. But for his blind passion he might have perceived this. Fancying it so, however, it is not strange that he goes half frantic, and can be heard giving utterance to fearful oaths every time he glances in his looking-glass.

After returning from his secret expedition of murder and pillage, he can gaze with more equanimity into the glass. From the man who caused the disfiguration of his visage he has exacted a terrible retribution. His adversary in the Chihuahua duel is now no more. He has met with a fate sufficient to satisfy the most implacable vengeance; and often, both sober and in his cups, does Gil Uraga break out into peals of laughter, like the glee of a demon, as he reflects on the torture, prolonged and horrible, his hated enemy must have endured before life became extinct!

But even all this does not appease his malevolent spirit. A portion of his vengeance is yet unappeased—that due to him who was second in the duel. And if it could be satisfied by the death of Miranda himself, then there would still be the other thought to torture him—his thwarted love scheme. The chagrin he suffers from this is stronger than his thirst for vengeance.

He is seated in the sala of Miranda’s house, which he occupies as his official headquarters. He is alone, his only companion being the bottle that stands upon a table beside him—this and a cigar burning between his lips. It is not wine he is drinking, but the whisky of Tequila, distilled from the wild maguey. Wine is too weak to calm his perturbed spirit, as he sits surveying the portrait upon the wall.

His eyes have been on it several times; each time, as he takes them off, drinking a fresh glass of the mezcal and igniting another cigar. What signifies all his success in villainy? What is life worth without her? He would plunder a church to obtain possession of her—murder his dearest friend to get from Adela Miranda one approving smile.

Such are his coarse thoughts as he sits soliloquising, shaping conjectures about the banished commandant and his sister.

Where can they have gone to? In all probability to the United States—that asylum of rebels and refugees. In the territory of New Mexico they cannot have stayed. His spies have searched every nook and corner of it, their zeal secured by the promise of large rewards. He has dispatched secret emissaries to the Rio Abajo, and on to the Provincias Internas. But no word of Miranda anywhere—no trace can be found either of him or his sister. “Chingara!”

As if this exclamatory phrase, sent hissing through his teeth—too foul to bear translation—were the name of a man, one at this moment appears in the doorway, who, after a gesture of permission to enter, steps inside the room.

He is an officer in full uniform—one whom we have met before, though not in military costume. It is Lieutenant Roblez, Uraga’s adjutant, as also his confederate in crime.

“I’m glad you’ve come, ayudante,” says the Colonel, motioning the new-comer to a seat. “I’m feeling a little bit lonely, and I want some one to cheer me. You, Roblez, are just the man for that; you’ve got such a faculty for conversation.”

This is ironical; for Roblez is as silent as an owl.

“Sit down and give me your cheerful company,” the Colonel adds. “Have a cigar and a copita of this capital stuff; it’s the best that Tequila produces.”

“I’ve brought other company that may be more cheerful than mine,” returns the adjutant, still keeping his feet.

“Ah! some of our fellows from the cuartel? Bring them in.”

“It is not any of the officers, Colonel. There’s only one man, and he’s a civilian.

“Civilian or soldier, you’re free to introduce him. I hope,” he adds, in an undertone, “it’s one of the ricos of the neighbourhood, who won’t mind taking an albur at montè or a throw of the dice. I’m just in the vein for a bit of play.”

“He I’m going to introduce don’t look much like a rico. From what I can see of him in the darkness, I should say that the blanket upon his shoulders and his sheepskin smallclothes—somewhat dilapidated by the way—are about all the property he possesses.”

“He’s a stranger to you, then?”

“As much as to yourself, as you’ll say after seeing him—perhaps more.”

“What sort of man is he?”

“For that matter, he can hardly be described as a man. At least, he’s not one of the gent-de-razon. He’s only an Indian.”

“Ha! Comanche?”

As he utters this interrogatory, Colonel Gil Uraga gives a slight start, and looks a little uneasy. His relations with men of the Indian race are of a delicate nature; and, although keen to cultivate their acquaintance whenever occasion requires it, he prefers keeping all Indians at a distance—more especially Comanches, when he has no particular need of their services. The thought has flashed across his mind that the man waiting to be ushered into his presence may be a messenger from the Horned Lizard; and with the Tenawa chief he desires no further dealings—at least for a time. Therefore, the belief of its being an emissary from his red-skinned confederate somewhat discomposes him.

The reply of his subordinate, however, reassures him.

“No, colonel, he’s not a Comanche; bears no resemblance to one, only in the colour of his skin. He appears to be a Pueblo; and from his tattered costume, I take him to be some poor labourer.”

“But what does he want with me?”

“That, colonel, I cannot say; only that he has expressed a very urgent desire to speak with you. I fancy he has something to communicate, which might be important for you to hear; else I should not have taken the liberty to bring him here.”

“You have him at hand?”

“I have. He is outside in the patio. Shall I usher him in?”

“By all means; there can be no harm in hearing what the fellow has to say. It may be about some threatened invasion of the savages; and as protectors of the people, you, ayudante, know it’s our duty to do whatever we can for warding off such a catastrophe.”

The colonel laughs at his sorry jest; the adjutant expressing his appreciation of it in a shrug of the shoulders, accompanied by a grim smile.

“Bring the brute in!” is the command that followed, succeeded by the injunction.

“Stay outside in the court till I send for or call you. The fellow may have something to say intended for only one pair of ears. Take a glass of the mezcal, light cigarrito, and amuse yourself as you best may.”

The adjutant obeys the first two of these directions; then, stepping out of the sala, leaves his superior officer alone.

Uraga glances around to assure himself that there are weapons within reach. With a conscience like his, a soul charged with crime, no wonder.

His sabre rests against the wall close to his hand, while a pair of dragoon pistols, both loaded, lie upon the table.

Satisfied with the proximity of these weapons, he sits upright in his chair and tranquilly awaits the entrance of the Indian.