The Rifle Rangers, Mayne Reid [intellectual books to read txt] 📗
- Author: Mayne Reid
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“He tells you there is no more,” said Raoul.
“Oh! the desavin’ Judas! and five hundred ov thim grazers atin’ over beyant there. No more banes! oh, the lie!”
“Frijoles—no hay,” said the Mexican, guessing at the purport of Chane’s remarks.
“Fray holeys!” repeated Chane, imitating the Mexican’s pronunciation of the word “frijoles”. “Och! git out wid your fray holeys! There isn’t the size of a flay of holiness about the place. Git out!”
Raoul, and indeed all of us except the Irishman himself, were bursting with laughter.
“I’m chokin’,” said the latter, after a pause; “ask him for wather, Raowl—sure he can’t deny that, with that purty little sthrame boilin’ up undher our noses, as clear as the potteen of Ennishowen.”
Raoul asked for water, which we all needed. Our throats were as dry as charcoal. The Mexican made a sign to one of the women, who shortly came up with an earthen jar filled with water.
“Give it first to the captin, misthress,” said Chane, pointing to me; “sarve all ayqually, but respict rank.”
The woman understood the sign, and handed me the jar. I drank copiously, passing it to my comrades, Clayley and Raoul. Chane at length took the jar; but instead of drinking immediately, as might have been expected, he set it between his knees and looked quizzically up at the woman.
“I say, my little darlint,” said he, winking, and touching her lightly under the ribs with his outstretched palm, “my little moochacha—that’s what they call thim—isn’t it, Raowl?”
“Muchacha? oh yes!”
“Well, thin, my purty little moochacha, cudn’t yez?—ye know what I mane—cudn’t yez? Och! ye know well enough—only a little—jist a mouthful to take the cowld taste aff the wather.”
“No entiende,” said the woman, smiling good-naturedly at Chane’s comical gestures.
“Och, the plague! there’s that tin days agin. Talk to her, Raowl. Tell her what I mane.”
Raoul translated his comrade’s wishes.
“Tell her, Raowl, I’ve got no money, becase I have been rabbed, de ye see? but I’ll give her ayther of these saints for the smallest thrifle of agwardent;” and he pulled the images out of his jacket as he spoke.
The woman, seeing these, bent forward with an exclamation; and, recognising the crucifix, with the images of the saint and Virgin, dropped upon her knees and kissed them devoutly, uttering some words in a language half Spanish, half Aztec.
Rising up, she looked kindly at Chane, exclaiming, “Bueno Catolico!” She then tossed the rebozo over her left shoulder, and hurried off across the yard.
“De yez think, Raowl, she’s gone after the licker?”
“I am sure of it,” answered the Frenchman.
In a few minutes the woman returned, and, drawing a small flask out of the folds of her rebozo, handed it to Chane.
The Irishman commenced undoing the string that carried his “relics.”
“Which ov them de yez want, misthress?—the saint, or the Howly Mother, or both?—it’s all the same to Murtagh.”
The woman, observing what he was after, rushed forward, and, placing her hands upon his, said in a kind tone:
“No, Señor. Su proteccion necesita usted.”
“Phwhat diz she say, Raowl?”
“She says, keep them; you will need their protection yourself.”
“Och, be me sowl! she’s not far asthray there. I need it bad enough now, an’ a hape ov good they’re likely to do me. They’ve hung there for tin years—both of thim; and this nate little flask’s the first raal binifit I iver resaved from ayther of them. Thry it, Captin. It’ll do yez good.”
I took the bottle and drank. It was the chingarito—a bad species of aguardiente from the wild aloe—and hot as fire. A mouthful sufficed. I handed the flask to Clayley, who drank more freely. Raoul followed suit, and the bottle came back to the Irishman.
“Your hilth, darlint!” said he, nodding to the Mexican woman. “May yez live till I wish ye dead!”
The woman smiled, and repeated, “No entiende.”
“Och! nivir mind the tin days—we won’t quarrel about that. Ye’re a swate crayteur,” continued he, winking at the woman; “but sure yer petticoats is mighty short, an’ yez want a pair of stockin’s bad, too; but nivir mind—yez stand well upon thim illigant ankles—’dade ye do; and yez have a purty little futt into the bargain.”
“Qué dice?” (What does he say?) asked the Mexican, speaking to Raoul.
“He is complimenting you on the smallness of your feet,” answered the Frenchman.
The woman was evidently pleased, and commenced cramping up what was in fact a very small foot into its faded satin slipper.
“Tell me, my dear,” continued Chane, “are yez married?”
“Qué dice?” again asked the woman.
“He wants to know if you are married.”
She smiled, waving her forefinger in front of her nose.
Raoul informed the Irishman that this was a negative answer to his question.
“By my sowl, thin,” said Chane, “I wudn’t mind marryin’ ye meself, an’ joinin’ the thribe—that is, if they’ll let me off from the hangin’. Tell her that, Raowl.”
As desired, Raoul explained his comrade’s last speech, at which the woman laughed, but said nothing.
“Silence gives consint. But tell her, Raowl, that I won’t buy a pig in a poke: they must first let me off from the hangin’, de ye hear?—tell her that.”
“El señor está muy alegre,” (The gentleman is very merry), said the woman; and, picking up her jar, with a smile, she left us.
“I say, Raowl, does she consint?”
“She hasn’t made up her mind yet.”
“By the holy vistment! thin it’s all up wid Murt. The saints won’t save him. Take another dhrap, Raowl!”
Night fell, and the blazing fagots threw their glare over the patio, striking upon objects picturesque at all times, but doubly so under the red light of the pine fires. The grouping of guerilleros—their broad, heavy hats, many of them plumed—their long black hair and pointed beards—their dark, flashing eyes—their teeth, fierce and white—the half-savage expression of their features—their costumes, high-coloured and wild-like—all combined in impressing us with strange feelings.
The mules, the mustangs, the dogs, the peons, the slippered wenches, with their coarse trailing tresses, the low roofs, the iron-barred windows, the orange-trees by the fountain, the palms hanging over the wall, the glistening cocuyos, were all strange sights to us.
The sounds that rang in our ears were not more familiar. Even the voices of the men, unlike the Saxon, sounded wild and sharp. It was the Spanish language, spoken in the patois of the Aztec Indians. In this the guerilleros chatted, and sang, and swore. There was a medley of other sounds, not less strange to our ears, as the dogs howled and barked their bloodhound notes—as the mustangs neighed or the mules whinnied—as the heavy sabre clanked or the huge spur tinkled its tiny bells—as the poblanas (peasant-women), sitting by some group, touched the strings of their bandolons, and chanted their half-Indian songs.
By a blazing pile, close to where we sat, a party of guerilleros, with their women, were dancing the tagarota, a species of fandango.
Two men, seated upon raw-hide stools, strummed away upon a pair of bandolons, while a third pinched and pulled at the strings of an old guitar—all three aiding the music with their shrill, disagreeable voices.
The dancers formed the figure of a parallelogram, each standing opposite his partner, or rather moving, for they were never at rest, but kept constantly beating time with feet, head, and hands. The last they struck against their cheeks and thighs, and at intervals clapped them together.
One would suddenly appear as a hunchback, and, dancing out into the centre of the figure, perform various antics to attract his partner. After a while she would dance up—deformed also—and the two, bringing their bodies into contact, and performing various disgusting contortions, would give place to another pair. These would appear without arms or legs, walking on their knees, or sliding along on their hips!
One danced with his head under his arm, and another with one leg around his neck; all eliciting more or less laughter, as the feat was more or less comical. During the dance every species of deformity was imitated and caricatured, for this is the tagarota. It was a series of grotesque and repulsive pictures. Some of the dancers, flinging themselves flat, would roll across the open space without moving hand or foot. This always elicited applause, and we could not help remarking its resemblance to the gymnastics we had lately been practising ourselves.
“Och, be me sowl! we can bate yez at that!” cried Chane, who appeared to be highly amused at the tagarota, making his comments as the dance went on.
I was sick of the scene, and watched it no longer. My eyes turned to the portale, and I looked anxiously through the half-drawn curtains.
“It is strange I have seen nothing of them! Could they have turned off on some other route? No—they must be here. Narcisso’s promise for to-night! He at least is here. And she?—perhaps occupied within—gay, happy, indifferent—oh!”
The pain shot afresh through my heart.
Suddenly the curtain was drawn aside, and a brilliant picture appeared within—brilliant, but to me like the glimpse which some condemned spirit might catch over the walls of Paradise. Officers in bright uniforms, and amongst these I recognised the elegant person of Dubrosc. Ladies in rich dresses, and amongst these—. Her sister, too, was there, and the Dona Joaquiana, and half a dozen other ladies, rustling in silks and blazing with jewels.
Several of the gentlemen—young officers of the band—wore the picturesque costume of the guerilleros.
They were forming for the dance.
“Look, Captain!” cried Clayley; “Don Cosmé and his people, by the living earthquake!”
“Hush! do not touch me—do not speak to me!”
I felt as though my heart would stop beating. It rose in my bosom, and seemed to hang for minutes without moving. My throat felt dry and husky, and a cold perspiration broke out upon my skin.
He approaches her—he asks her to dance—she consents! No: she refuses. Brave girl! She has strayed away from the dancers, and looks over the balustrade. She is sad. Was it a sigh that caused her bosom to rise? Ha! he comes again. She is smiling!—he touches her hand!
“Fiend! false woman!” I shouted at the top of my voice as I sprang up, impelled by passion. I attempted to rush towards them. My feet were bound, and I fell heavily upon my face!
The guards seized me, tying my hands. My comrades, too, were re-bound. We were dragged over the stones into a small room in one corner of the patio.
The door was bolted and locked, and we were left alone.
It would be impossible to describe my feelings as I was flung upon the floor of our prison. This was cold, damp, and filthy; but I heeded not these grievances. Greater sorrows absorbed the less. There is no torture so racking, no pain so painful as the throbbings of a jealous heart; but how much harder to bear under circumstances like mine! She could sleep, smile, dance—dance by my prison, and with my jailer!
I felt spiteful—vengeful. I was stung to a desire for retaliation, and along with this came an eagerness to live for the opportunity of indulging in this passion.
I began to look around our prison, and see what chances it afforded for escape.
“Good heavens! if our being transferred to the cell should destroy the plans of Narcisso! How is he to reach us? The door is double-locked, and a sentry is pacing without.”
After several painful efforts I raised myself upon my feet, propping my body against the side of the prison. There was an aperture—a window about as large as a loophole for musketry. I spun myself along the wall until I stood directly under it. It was just the height of my chin. Cautioning my companions to silence, I placed my ear to the aperture and listened. A low sound came wailing from the fields without. I did not heed this. I knew it was the wolf. It rose again, louder than before. A peculiarity in the howl struck me, and I turned,
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